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1  2  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

S 

6 

AN 


INTRODUCTION 


TO  THE 


POETRY  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING 


/ 


BY 


WILLIAM  JOHN   ALEXANDER,    Ph.D., 

MuNRO  Professor  of  English  Languagb  and  Literati  rb,  Dalhousib  Colucb 

AND  University,  Halifax,  N.S.,  and  formerly  Fellow  of 

THB  Johns  Hopkins  Univbrsity. 


/ozi  ^5"'/-/  oi 


PR 


BOSTON,  U.S. A.: 
PUBLISHED  BY  GINN  &  COMPANY 
1889.  t^NN 


Coi'VKK.iiT,  i88g, 
Bv  OINN  &  COMPANY. 

All  RiiiHTs  Reserved. 


TvrocRArHv  bv  J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co..  Boston.  U.S.A. 
PresoWork  bv  Ginn  &  Co.,  Bosto.v,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE. 


Tm:   following  Introduction   to   the  Poetry  of  Robert 
lirowning  was  originally  delivered  in  the  form  of  lectures 
to  a  class  of  advanced  students.     The  writer  is  stroni.lv 
averse  to  that  study  of  literature  which  consists  in  read- 
ing  about  books  rather  than  in  reading  the  books  them- 
selves.     Accordingly  the  present  work  consists  largely  of 
extracts,  accompanied  by  careful  analyses  and  a  copious 
critical  commentary.     By  the  help  of  these,  it  is  hoped 
that  the  reader  ^v.ll  be  enabled  to  feel  the  excellence,  and 
will  be  led  to  make  a  wider  study  of  the  works  of  a  poet 
vvho  IS,  at  first,  confessedly  difficult  and  somewhat  repellent 
For  th.s  wider  study,  .he  chapters  on  "Development  "  are 
intended   to  serve  as  a  guide.     The  attention   of  those 
already  famihar  with  Browning  is  specially  directed  to  the 
A,u^/J.s.s  of  Sordello,  much  fuller  and  more  exact,  it  is 
be  leved    than  any  hitherto  published.     The  text  ;>f  the 
extracts  has  been  harmonized,  as  far  as  possible,  with  the 
new  and  complete  edition  of  Browning's  work  .now  in 
course  of  publication  in  England.     ReLences  by  pIg  s 
are  invariably  to  this  edition.  '' 

body  of  th.s  work  especially  to  the  profound  and  sugges- 
author  .s  conscious  of  being  under  obligation  to  Professor 


Iv 


I'RKFACE. 


Dowdcn's  Mr.  Tennyson  and  Mr.  Drowning  {Studies  in 
Literature),  and  Mr.  Mutton's  Mr.  Browning  {Essays,  Theo- 
logical and  Literary).  Much  assistance  has  been  afforded 
by  the  valuable  collection  of  facts  contained  in  Dr.  Furni- 
vall's  Bibliography  of  Robert  Browning,  which  also  furnishes 
the  text  of  the  Essay  on  Shelley,  quoted  in  Chapter  IV. 

That  it  may  not  be  supposed  that  obligations  to  various 
introductions  to  Browning  now  existing  in  book  form,  have 
been  overlooked,  it  may  be  well  to  state  that  the  present 
work  was  (with  the  exception  of  one  or  two  statements  of 
fact)  already  completed  in  manuscript,  as  it  now  stands,  in 
September,  1886,  before,  as  far  as  the  author  is  aware,  any 
of  these  books,  except  that  of  Mrs.  Sutherland  Orr,  had 
appeared. 

There  is  a  debt,  however,  and  that  the  greatest,  which 
yet  remains  to  be  acknowledged.  Although  the  author,  in 
writing  the  following  pages,  had  not  the  help  of  Professor 
Corson's  Introduction  to  Browning,  he  had,  some  six  years 
ago,  the  good  fortune  to  hear  My  Last  Duchess  read  and 
expounded  (much  as  in  the  following  pages)  by  Professor 
Corson  himself.  Those  who  have  heard  Professor  Corson's 
extraordinarily  sympathetic  reading  and  interpretation  of 
poetry,  will  easily  understand  that  this  occasion  gave  the 
impulse  to  the  study  of  Browning,  of  which  the  present 
work  is  the  outcome. 

W.  J.  A. 

DAI.HOUSIE  College,  Halifax, 
Nova  .Scotia. 


i 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

General  Chahacteristics 

CHAPTER   H. 
Browning's  Philosofhy    .... 

CHAPTER  HI. 

CHRISriANlTV  AS   PRESENTED  IN    Browning'S  VVoRKS 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Bkownivu's  Theorv  of  Art 

CHAPTER  V. 
Develoi'men't:  First  Period  . 


Analysis  of  Sordello 


CHAPTER  VI. 


CHAPTER   VII. 
Development:  Second  Period 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
Development:  Third  Period 


rA(.K 
I 


.         28 


60 


109 


'35 


'44 


178 


200 


Index  of  Poems 


211 


r 
c 
a 
il 
\n 
h 

01 

ki 


INTRODUCTION 


TO  THE 


4 

4 


POETRY   OF    ROBERT    BROWNING. 


xi^^Co- 


CHAPTER   I. 

GENERAL  CHARACTERISTICS. 

The  difficulties  which  we  encounter  in  attempting  to 
appreciate  a  classic  poet  from  whom  we  are  separated  by  a 
long  interval  of  time,  are  well  known.     These  difficulties 
however,  are  recognized,  and  for  the  reader  who  is  earnestly 
bent  on  understanding  and  appreciating  a  great  writer  of 
he  pa.st.  there  are  helps  of  all  kinds.     Criticism  in  the 
lapse  of  ages  has  sufficiently  determined  what  we  are  to 
ook  for  in  such  a  poet,  what  we  are  to  admire,  what  we  are 
to  recognize  as  faulty,  what  is  worthy  of  repeated  perusal, 
what  may  be  glanced  at  or  omitted.     In  the  case  of  a  poe 
of  our  own  time,  none  of  these  points  have  been  settled 
If,  indeed  he  is  one  who  follows  the  beaten  track,  we  have 
no  great  difficulty  in  applying  for  ourselves  the  old  canons 
o  fen  icism ;  but  if  he  is  a  strikingly  original  worker,  we 

It  is  tL  .rT;  .K f'T  '^"''  ""'  P""^'"^^'  ^"t  ^°»°^«  art; 
wh  ch  the  ;t  ^   ""'"'  *'"  ^P'^^^'  ^"^  ''  ^^^  "-^  ^-t 
himself.     When  we  approach  a  new  and  original  a  tist 

kL" t     IV'''  T  P-P— --  -e  sliocked  we 
know  not  whether  to  admire  or  condemn.     Of  a  classic 


(lENKRAI.   CHARACTF.KISTICS. 


I 


author,  wc  know  both  the  merits  and  defects.  We  are  aware 
that  Shakespeare's  diction  is  sometimes  turgid,  that  he  oc- 
casionally sins  against  good  taste,  that  he  is  frequently 
obscure ;  and  we  know  where  these  defects  are  present. 
But  in  a  new  poet  the  apparent  sin  may  be  against  our 
individual  taste,  not  against  the  rules  of  art ;  the  obscurity 
may  lie  in  our  own  dulness,  nbt  in  the  poet.  We  must 
give  all  points,  therefore,  painful  and  impartial  considera- 
tion. Most  great  poets  are  uneven ;  some  of  their  works 
may  be  scarce  worth  reading  :  for  the  classics  criticism  has 
marked  these  off.  But  no  matter  how  voluminous  our  new 
original  poet  is,  we  dare  not  pass  lightly  over  any  work. 
Who  knows  but  careful  study  may  find  it  a  masterpiece? 
We  are  thus  compelled  to  endure  all  his  prolixity,  his  exper- 
iments, his  failures ;  and  the  weariness  and  distaste  so 
begotten  are  apt  to  blind  us  to  his  beauties  and  his  great- 
ness. The  task  of  keeping  the  mind  open  and  impartial  is 
for  most  a  difficult  one.  If  we  could  but  fix  our  original 
poet  at  once,  stamp  him  as  bad  or  good !  But  no,  the 
greatest  poets  have  great  defects.  Or  if  we  could  be  but 
certain  (and  we  can  be  fairly  so  in  the  classics)  that  here 
the  poet  is  defective,  and  not  our  taste  at  fault,  that  there 
he  is  splendid,  though  we  may  be  inappreciative  ! 

There  is  no  poet  of  our  time  more  original,  be  that 
originality  good  or  bad,  than  Browning,  —  no  poet,  there- 
fore, in  whose  case  the  disadvantages  alluded  to  are  more 
apparent.  There  is  no  poetry  on  which  opinions  are 
so  much  divided,  none  so  at  variance  with  preconceived 
ideas,  none,  therefore,  which  it  is  so  difficult  fairly  to  ap- 
preciate. There  is  no  poet  of  our  time  so  uneven,  none  so 
voluminous,  none  so  obscure.  There  is  no  poet,  then,  who 
so  much  needs  an  interpreter.  It  is  the  aim  of  the  present 
volume  in  some  measure  to  obviate  these  difficulties.    The 


r.F.NI.KAL    CIIARACTKRISTICS. 


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:  he  oc- 
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present 
The 


re 


writer  is,  of  course,  no  more  qualified  to  give  judgment  on 
disputed  points  than  the  rest  of  the  world.  He  has  merely 
the  advantage  of  having  closely  and  fully  studied  his  author, 
and  of  having  made  himself  acquainted  with  criticisms  on 
Hrowning  widely  scattered  in  magazines  and  collected 
essays.  It  would  nevertheless  have  been  unnatural,  and 
indeed  impossible,  to  avoid  giving  his  own  judgment  on 
Hrowning's  excellences  and  defects,  and  abundant  evidence 
will  be  found  in  these  pages  that  the  writer  has  not  attempted 
to  do  so.  These  opinions  may  go  for  what  tV»*y  are  worth. 
The  value  of  the  present  attempt  is  expected  i:  be  found 
in  its  giving  a  compendious  view  of  Browning';*  pcculiap- 
ties,  showing  the  reader  what  he  is  to  look  •  r  in  liiowni',^  s 
poetry,  and  what  he  need  not  expect ;  in  unfohling  such  a 
conscCu.  /e  view  of  Browning's  leading  idea:;  a*  J  aims  as 
may  be  necessary  for  the  understanding  of  hi^.  work  ;  and 
finally  in  giving  and  elucidating  such  a  series  ui  extracts 
as  may  set  the  reader  in  the  proper  path  for  appreciating 
the  poet,  and  studying  him  further.  There  cm  be  no 
doubt  that  many  a  reader  has  been  repelled  from  Browning 
through  unfortunately  attempting  to  make  his  acquaintance 
in  such  poems  as  Sordello,  Fifine,  or  in  one  of  his  enig- 
matic shorter  pieces,  without  having  the  clue  for  under- 
standing their  significance. 

In  this  opening  chapter  a  survey  of  Browning's  most 
pervading  and  striking  peculiarities  is  given,  and  an  at- 
tempt made  to  account  for  them.  The  student  of  Bipwn- 
ing  is  thus  prepared  for  what  awaits  him,  and  is  secured  in 
some  measure  against  the  irritation  begotten  by  the  pres- 
ence of  oddities  and  uglinesses  which  are  apparently  the 
result  of  caprice. 

It  has  come  to  be  a  truism  in  our  day  that  a  man's  work 
is  determined,  not  only  by  the  ch?.racter  of  his  genius,  but 


/ 


GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS. 


also  by  the  conditions  of  his  age.  A  Darwin  may  be  born 
in  any  age  ;  but  if  he  is  to  make  great  advances  in  science, 
he  must  be  born  in  a  time  favorable  to  scientific  pursuits. 
Homer  would  not  write  a  great  epic,  were  he  alive  r  ow ; 
nor  Shakespeare,  great  dramas.  For  the  production  of 
works  01  the  highest  class  in  any  department,  there  is  need, 
not  merely  of  an  individual  possessing  the  highest  endow- 
ments for  that  species  of  work,  but  also  of  an  age  and  exter- 
nal circumstances  in  the  highest  degree  favorable  to  the 
exercise  of  those  endowments.  And  this  influence  of  the 
age  limits  the  artist  in  points  where,  perhaps,  we  might 
little  expect  it.  It  prescribes,  for  example,  the  subject  of 
art.  The  time  imposed  one  task  on  Phidias  and  his  con- 
temporaries,—  that  of  producing  ideally  beautiful  types 
of  the  human  form  ;  another  and  very  different  one  on 
Raphael  and  his  fellows,  —  that  of  representing  the  con- 
ceptions of  an  ascetic  religion,  the  body  worn  by  spiritual 
and  physical  conflict,  where  the  beauty  of  the  outward  man 
was  often  sacrificed  to  the  perfection  of  the  soul  within. 
It  by  no  means  follows  that  Phidias  would  have  attained 
the  highest  excellence  in  the  second  period,  or  Raphael  in 
the  first.  In  poetry,  also,  it  is  true,  if  less  obvious,  that 
the  subject  is  within  certain  limits  prescribed.  The  early 
Greek  dramatists  were  confined  to  the  traditional  stories 
of  the  gods  and  heroes  of  their  race,  —  confined  by  the 
overwhelming  attraction  these  stories  had  for  their  audi- 
ence, and  by  the  national  and  religious  aspects  of  the  Greek 
stage. 

There  is  a  further  limitation  of  subject,  not  at  all  affect- 
ing these  earliest  dramatists,  but  of  the  greatest  impor- 
tance in  considering  a  late  poet  like  Browning, — the 
narrowing  of  the  field  of  art  through  preoccupation,  —  the 
exhaustion  by  earlier  workers  of  any  subject,  or  method 


I 


I 


GENERAL   CHARACTERISTICS. 


5 


♦ 


of  treatment.  We  may  again  illustrate  from  plastic  art. 
Sculpture,  whose  main  aim  is  the  presentation  in  marble 
of  ideally  perfect  types  of  the  human  form,  was  the  first 
of  the  plastic  arts  to  reach  perfection.  Its  proper  subject 
—  that  in  which  its  greatest  triumphs  were  won  —  is  the 
whole  figure.  The  face  is  of  no  overwhelming  importance ; 
on  the  contrary,  it  has  been  observed  that  Greek  statues 
which  happen  to  lack  the  head,  lose  comparatively  little. 
But  when  the  face  is  left  out  of  consideration,  the  ideally 
perfect  types  of  manhood  and  womanhood  which  the 
general  figure  is  fitted  to  express,  are  soon  exhausted,  and 
were  practically  exhausted  in  the  classic  age  of  Greek 
sculpture.  Subsequent  artists  were  driven  to  subjects 
unfitted  for  marble,  or  to  exaggerated  types  like  the  Far- 
nese  Hercules,  and  art  declined,  as  it  always  does  when 
it  clings  to  an  exhausted  field.  Before  another  great  art 
epoch  could  arise,  it  was  necessary  that  a  new  theme 
should  be  found. 

Now,  the  natural  course  of  the  human  mind,  as  illus- 
trated by  all  arts  and  sciences,  is  from  the  simple  aAd 
general  to  the  complex  and  detailed.  So  it  is  because 
sculpture  is,  of  the  plastic  arts,  the  one  best  fitted  to  ex- 
press simple  and  general  types,  that  it  was  the  first  to  reach 
perfection.  Thereafter,  art  had  to  advance  a  step  in  com- 
plexity, and  give  individual  characterization  to  representa- 
tions of  men  and  women,  —  to  picture,  not  general  types, 
but  typical  individuals.  Such  characterization  is  found 
mainly  in  the  minute  lines  of  the  face,  and  such  types  are 
often  morally,  rather  than  physically,  beautiful.  On  both 
accounts  marble  was  not  a  fit  medium ;  and  when,  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  a  demand  arose  for  this  kind  of  representa- 
tion, recourse  was  had  to  painting.  So  a  second  great  art 
epoch  came  into  existence,  that  of  the  Old  Masters,  whose 


GENERAL   CHARACTERISTICS. 


works  both  in  complexity  of  composition,  and  in  minutiae 
of  characterization,  far  surpass  the  works  of  the  age  of 
Pericles.  But  here  again,  when  the  subject  —  the  pictur- 
esque presentation  of  the  central  scenes  of  Christianity 
—  was  exhausted,  decline  followed. 

Turning  now  to  the  drama,  we  find  an  analogous  devel- 
opment. It  began  in  the  grand  general  types  of  character 
presented  m  the  works  of  iEschylus  and  Sophocles.  But 
the  nobly  impressive  figures  afforded  by  Greek  tradition 
were  easily  exhausted ;  and  already  Euripides  was  forced  to 
lend  novelty  by  exaggeration,  or  to  introduce  characters 
unsuited  to  the  treatment  of  the  Greek  stage.  To  these 
works  of  i£schylus  and  Sophocles  the  works  of  the  second 
great  period  of  dramatic  development  —  the  one  to  which 
Shakespeare  belongs  —  bear  a  relation  analogous  to  that 
of  the  painting  of  the  Renaissance  to  the  sculpture  of 
Phidias.  We  have  no  longer  the  simple  grouping  of  two 
or  three  figures,  and  these  figures  are  no  longer  merely 
sketched  in  broad  outlines  ;  but  we  have,  in  the  works  of 
Shakespeare,  a  reproduction  of  the  most  complex  situa- 
tions of  human  life,  and  the  characters  are  most  minutely 
elaborated  presentations  of  typical  individuals.  We  may 
illustrate  the  relation  of  the  ancient  to  the  modem  drama 
by  the  fact  that  the  Greek  actor's  face  was  covered  with  a 
mask,  which,  while  it  presented  the  general  conception  of 
the  character,  could  not  exhibit  the  changes  of  expression 
which  correspond  to  details  of  feeling ;  and  again,  by  the 
fact  that  the  actor's  voice,  in  those  vast  open-air  assemblies, 
could  only  have  rendered  the  broad  phases  of  passion,  and 
not  the  finer  play  expressed  by  the  intonations  of  the 
modern  actor's  voice. 

Having  thus  seen  how  conditions  external  to  the  artist 
further  and  retard  his  work  and  determine  its  nature,  let 


GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS. 


US  examine  what  effect  the  conditions  of  our  own  age 
must  have  on  poetic  art.  The  poets  of  the  present  cen- 
tury have  found  a  comparatively  fresh  subject  in  external 
nature,  and  are  mainly  lyrical.  Browning,  however,  has  a 
decided  bent  towards  the  objective  presentation  of  human 
life,  for  which  the  favorite  form  has  been  the  drama.  But 
Shakespeare's  work  in  this  department  is  so  surpassing 
and  extensive  that,  as  Goethe  has  observed,  it  has  pre- 
cluded any  really  successful  work  in  those  lines  which 
he  followed  out.  What  he  left  unoccupied  was  seized  by 
the  writers  of  the  last  century ;  and  the  drama  has  in  Eng- 
land, at  present,  every  appearance  of  being  an  exhausted 
field.  Moreover,  apart  from  this  consideration,  there  are 
reasons  enough  in  the  general  conditions  of  the  age,  and 
of  society  in  England,  why  the  drama  should  not  be  suc- 
cessfully cultivated.  The  subject  of  the  drama  is  human 
life  in  movement,  —  in  other  words,  action,  and  character 
in  so  far  as  it  is  revealed  in  exterior  manifestations.  But 
for  dramatic  action,  the  life  of  to-day  is  not  so  favorable 
as  the  life  of  the  past.  The  picturesque  actions  of  life 
have  been  largely  handed  over  to  society  incorporated  in 
government.  The  injured  man  does  not  avenge  himself, 
or  if  he  does  so,  commands  but  partial  sympathy,  through 
the  law-abiding  instincts  which  have  grown  strong  within 
us.  It  is  government  which  executes  vengeance;  and 
corporate  action  has  not  the  power  of  rousing  sympathy 
and  interest  which  individual  action  possesses.  Again, 
character  is  not  made  apparent  through  exterior  manifes- 
tations as  it  once  was.  We  do  not  burst  into  tears  as 
did  Homer's  heroes.  The  whole  force  of  social  discipline 
is  employed  to  repress  manifestations  of  feeling.  In 
society,  our  utterances  must  be  tempered  to  the  demands 
of  politeness;  gesture  is  a  violation  of  decorum,  even  the 


GENERAL    CIlAKACTERISTICb. 


play  of  feature  and  expression  is  checked.  But  frank 
speech,  gesture,  and  expression  are,  to  the  drama,  the  very 
breath  of  life  ;  while  the  self-control  and  subdued  conven- 
tional bearing  of  English  society  of  to-day  are  fatal  to  it. 
It  is  recorded  that  Queen  Elizabeth  occasionally  struck 
her  courtiers  in  the  face,  and  Essex  drew  his  sword  and 
swv  re  he  would  not  endure  her  treatment  of  him.  Just  as 
in  our  costume  the  picturesqueness  of  the  Middle  Ages 
has  departed,  and  the  whole  civilized  world  is  rapidly  being 
reduced  to  one  monotonous  fashion,  in  which  national  and 
class  distinctions  are  lost,  and  but  little  play  allowed  to 
individual  taste ;  so  in  character,  the  idiosyncrasies  of 
nation,  class,  and  individual  are  hidden  under  a  common 
conventional  mould.  Thus  he  who  attempts  to  write 
dramas  nowadays,  inevitably  falls  either  into  pale  reflexes 
of  earlier  works,  or  into  those  exaggerations  which  charac- 
terize periods  of  artistic  exhaustion.  He  fails  in  the  aim 
which  Shakespeare,  through  the  mouth  of  Hamlet,  has 
laid  down  for  the  drama,  "  whose  end,"  he  says,  "  both  at 
the  first  and  now,  was  and  is,  to  hold,  as  'twere,  the  mirror 
up  to  nature,  to  show  virtue  her  own  feature,  scorn  her  own 
image,  and  the  very  age  and  body  of  the  time  his  form  and 
pressure" 

And  yet  it  is  not  for  a  moment  to  be  admitted  that 
modern  life  is  less  varied  and  intense  than  that  of  earlier 
periods ;  but  it  is  not  in  the  outer,  but  in  the  inner  life  that 
this  interest  and  intensity  lie.  Mental  life  is  ever  becoming 
more  free,  more  varied,  more  complex.  Here,  then,  the  pres- 
ent age  affords,  in  a  detail  and  fulness  which  no  previous 
age  can  rival,  a  subject  for  literary  art.  It  is,  further,  u 
subject  which  earlier  poets  have  not  exhausted.  The  most 
general  types  of  character  were  treated  in  the  Greek 
dramr..     Shakespeare  treated,  with  greater  detail  and  com- 


GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS. 


lit  frank 
the  very 
I  convcn- 
ital  to  it. 
y  struck 
vord  and 
Just  as 
:\\c  Ages 
[Uy  being 
ional  and 
llowed  to 
rasies   of 
common 
to   write 
e  reflexes 
:h  charac- 
n  the  aim 
mlet,  has 
"  both  at 
le  mirror 
her  own 
form  and 

ted  that 
of  earlier 
r  life  that 
secoming 
the  pres- 
previous 
urther,  a. 
The  most 
He  Greek 
and  com- 


plexity, action,  and  character  as  exhibited  in  action  and 
external  manifestations.  It  remained  to  make  the  mind 
the  main  subject  of  presentation, — mental  conditions, 
psychological  facts,  too  subtle  to  be  apparent  in  the  coarse 
medium  of  action  and  ordinary  speech.  The  minute  study 
and  analysis  necessary  for  the  presentation  of  such  a 
theme,  is  in  harmony  with  the  prevailing  scientific  tendency 
of  the  time  ;  and  there  is  besides  a  widespread  and  unpre- 
cedented interest  in  the  inner  life.  To  this  tendency  and 
interest,  the  character  of  the  biographies  and  autobiogra- 
phies continually  being  published  bears  witness.  And  it  is, 
possibly,  because  the  novel  permits  the  fullest  treatment  of 
psychological  life,  that  the  novel  is  now  the  most  popular 
form  of  literature.  That  novels  themselves  are  becoming 
more  and  more  dominated  by  the  same  tendency,  is  easily 
apparent.  We  have  but  to  compare  the  works  of  Scott 
and  Jane  Austen  with  those  of  George  Eliot  and  W.  D. 
Howells. 
%-  Naturally  enough,  then.  Browning,  the  only  great  poet 
of  our  day  who  has  won  his  chief  triumphs  in  the  objec- 
tive presentatipn  _of  lifp  ^nd  chay^pt^er,  is  a  man  who  is 
possessed  of  the  keenest  eye  for  the  inner  life,  whose 
interest  in  outer jict ion  is  subordinate  to  an  interest  in  the 
inner  drama  of  the  soul.  He TsTfie  successor  of  our  great 
dramatists,  and  no  English  poet  since  Shakespeare  has 
seized  and  presented  views  of  human  life  and  character 
with  such  variety  and  vividness.  But,  as  was  to  be  antici- 
pated from  the  character  of  his  age.  Browning  is  no  dram- 
atist. The  drama  is  not  a  fit  instrument  to  reveal  the 
subtler  and  minuter  workings  of  the  mind,  with  which 
Browning  chiefly  deals.  In  his  most  successful  work,  he 
has  resorted  to  another  form  of  presentation,  the  Mono- 
logue, of  which  it  will  be  well,  before 


describing 


It  ill 


} 


lO 


GENERAL   CHARACTERISTICS. 


general  terms,  to  give  a  concrete  example.  The  piece 
entitled  Afy  Last  Duchess,  is  selected  as  affording  in  the 
smallest  compass  a  most  characteristic  and  successful 
illustration  of  Browning's  peculiar  manner.  For  the 
benefit  of  those  unaccustomed  to  Browning's  style,  the 
extract  is  accompanied  by  an  introduction  and  running 
commentary.  Browning  is  so  pregnant  a  writer,  indi- 
cates so  much  by  a  hint,  that  prolonged  and  careful  study 
is  usually  necessary  in  order  to  grasp  the  full  significance 
of  his  work. 

In  My  Last  Duchess,  two  characters  are  portrayed.  One 
is  a  beautiful  young  girl,  to  whose  ju'st  opening  mind  the 
whole  world  is  full  of  fresh  beauty,  to  whose  unworn  sen- 
sibilities existence  is  a  joy ;  whose  heart,  in  its  ignorance 
of  the  coldness  and  wickedness  of  this  world,  is  full  of 
love  and  clinging  trustfulness.  The  other  character,  the 
Duke,  is  her  direct  antithesis.  Old  in  years,  and  older  in 
experience,  he  is  the  complex  product  of  a  highly  artificial 
state  of  society.  Of  noble  birth,  with  external  perfection 
of  breeding,  possessed  of  a  highly  cultivated  taste  and 
intellect,  he  is  inwardly  the  very  incarnation  of  cold  and 
selfish  egoism.  In  him,  moreover,  a  combination  of  sel- 
fishness with  pride  has  begotten  that  grudging  temper 
which  hates  happiness  in  others,  and  would  fain  keep  its 
pleasures  to  itself.  He  marries  this  girl.  Her  fresh- 
ness and  frank  happiness,  her  innocence  ana  sweetness, 
charm  all  about  her;  but  the  Duke  cannot  endure  that 
others  should  enjoy  the  fragrance  and  beauty  of  a  rose 
which  he  has  plucked  to  be  all  his  own,  and  he  grudges 
her  the  pleasure  she  finds  in  the  simple  delights  of  a  world 
which  palls  upon  his  jaded  palate.  In  his  own  mind,  he 
represents  her  conduct  as  unbecoming  her  position,  and 
determines  to  put  an  end  to  it.     Coldly  and  relentlessly, 


GENERAL   CHARACTERISTICS. 


II 


ction 
and 
and 
sel- 
mper 
ep  its 
rash- 
ness, 
that 
rose 
iidges 
world 
id,  he 
and 
essly, 


i 


the  more  cruelly  that  there  is  no  outward  violence,  he  pro- 
ceeds to  shape  this  tender  creature  to  his  own  mould,  but 
succeeds  only  in  crushing  hope,  love,  and  life  out  of  his 
young  wife.  She  dies  of  a  broken  heart.  Thereupon,  to 
fill  the  vacant  place,  the  Duke  enters  into  negotiations  for 
the  daughter  of  a  Count.  To  complete  the  arrangements 
about  dowry,  etc.,  a  third  person  visits  him  on  tiehalf  of 
this  Count.  To  this  third  person,  the  Duke  shows  a  por- 
trait of  his  deceased  wife ;  and  here  the  poem  opens.  The 
Duke  speaks  with  all  the  satisfaction  of  a  connoisseur  in 
the  possession  of  a  fine  painting,  but  without  trace  of  the 
emotions  which  such  a  picture  might  be  expected  to 
rouse  in  a  husband  :  — 

That's  ray  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall. 

Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.     I  call 

That  piece  a  wonder,  now :  Frk  Pandolfs  hands 

Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 

Will't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her?    I  said  5 

"  Frk  Pandolf "  by  design,  for  never  read 

Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance, 

The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance. 

But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 

The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I)  10 

And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst, 

How  such  a  glance  came  there ;  so,  not  the  first 

Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus. 

The  words  enclosed  in  brackets  give  a  characteristic 
touch  of  the  dog-in-manger  spirit  of  the  Duke ;  he  keeps 
the  picture  veiled,  grudging  the  pleasure  it  would  give  to 
others. 

The  painter  had  been  successful  in  catching  the  charac- 
teristic expression  of  the  young  Duchess,  —  the  bright 


la 


GENERAL   C  HARACTERISTICS. 


soul,  with  unconscious  and  unsuppresscd  revelation  of  its 
inner  depths,  looks  out  on  the  world  in  earnest  interest. 
So  full  of  self -revelation  and  feeling  was  the  expression, 
that  a  stranger  might  suspe:t  some  tender  relation  between 
sitter  and  painter ;  the  husland,  therefore,  names  the  artist 
Vrk  Pandolf,  whose  well-known  character  would  preclude 
any  such  suspicion,  and  goes  on  further  to  account  for  the 
expression. 

Sir,  'twas  not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 
Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek  :  perhaps  15 

Fri  Pandolf  chanced  to  say  "  Her  mantle  laps 
Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "  Paint 
Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 
Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat :  "  such  stuff 
Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough  20 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 
A  heart  —  how  shall  I  say?  —  too  soon  made  glad. 
Too  easily  impressed  ;  she  liked  whate'er 
She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 

The  poet  finely  throws  out  a  suggestion  of  her  beauty 
for  the  imagination  to  work  on,  in  the  beautiful  lines  17-19. 

In  the  passage  which  follows,  the  artistic  power  and 
brevity  of  the  poet  are  apparent  in  the  way  in  which  the 
Duke,  while  describing  his  wife,  is  made  to  reveal  his  own 
character :  — 


Sir,  'twas  all  one  !    My  favour  at  her  breast, 
Tlie  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 
The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 
Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 
She  rode  with  round  the  terrace  —  all  and  each 
Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech. 


n 


39 


I 


GENERAL   CHARACTERISTICS. 


13 


1  of  its 
nterest. 
)rcssion, 
between 
\\c  artist 
preclude 
t  £or  the 


'5 


20 


Or  blush,  at  least.    She  thanked  men,  —  good  !  but  thanked 

Somehow  —  I  know  not  how  —  as  if  she  ranked 

My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old- name 

With  anybody's  gift.    Who'd  stoop  to  blame 

This  sort  of  trifling?    Even  had  you  skill  35 

In  speech  —  (which  I  have  not)  —  to  make  your  will 

Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "  Just  this 

Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me ;  here  you  miss. 

Or  there  exceed  the  mark  "  —  and  if  she  let 

Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set  40 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 

—  E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping ;  and  I  choose 

Never  to  stoop.    Oh  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt. 

Whene'er  I  passed  her ;  but  who  passed  without 

Much  the  same  smile?    This  grew ;  I  gave  commands ;     45 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.    There  she  stands 

As  if  alive. 


jr  beauty 

s  17-19. 

wer  and 

hich  the 

his  own 


25 


30 


Observe  the  impatient  anger  of  "  some  officious  fool " 
(1.  27),  and  in  lines  30  ff.  one  feels  anger  welling  out,  though 
repressed  by  the  politeness  and  cold  temperament  of  the 
Duke. 

The  impatient  question,  "Who'd  blame  this  sort  of 
trifling } "  is  characteristic  of  Browning's  style.  He  thus, 
without  making  the  second  person  speak,  enables  us  to 
perceive  his  influence  on  the  course  of  the  monologue. 

Browning  merely  indicates  action  or  leaves  it  wholly  to 
the  reader's  imag^ination.  In  the  following  passage  we 
must  supply  action  suited  to  the  words.  The  two  gentle- 
men rise  and  proceed  towards  the  staircase,  and  the  Duke 
returns  to  a  toinc  which  has  evidently  been  broken  off  to 
look  at  the  picture,  ^—  viz.,  his  approaching  marriage.  This 
exhibition  of  his  late  wife's  picture,  while  engaged  in  a 
discussion  with  regard  to  the  dowry  of  the  next,  is  another 
fine  touch. 


14 


GENF.KAI-   CHARACTERISTICS. 


^ 


Will't  please  you  rise?    We'll  meet 
The  company  below,  then.     I  repeat, 
The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 
Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence  JO 

( )f  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed ; 
Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 
At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we'll  go 
Together  down,  sir. 

The  predominating  importance  of  the  dowry  is  evident 
in  the  very  disclaimer.  At  line  53  they  reach  the  top  of 
the  staircase.  The  stranger,  who  is  of  course  the  Duke's 
social  inferior,  will  not  go  first,  and  the  considerate  man- 
ners which  are  often  linked  with  a  hollow  heart,  are  indi- 
cated by  the  Duke's  "  Nay,  we'll  go  together  down,  sir." 

Passing  a  window,  the  Duke,  in  the  following  lines,  points 
to  a  statue  in  the  court ;  and  in  a  final  touch  the  poet  gives 
us  a  glimpse  of  the  pride  of  the  virtuoso,  which  peeps 
through  the  assumed  modesty  of  "  thought  a  rarity," 


Notice  Neptune,  though. 
Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 
Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me  ! 


55 


With  this  example  in  our  minds,  let  us  proceed  to  examine 
the  general  characteristics  of  Browning's  favorite  method. 
As  is  illustrated  in  the  poem  just  read,  the  depicting  of 
character  and  of  psychological  situation  is  his  main  object ; 
the  story  is  only  indicated  in  order  to  throw  light  upon 
the  personages.  The  specific  charm  of  a  story  or  drama, 
plot  development,  is  quite  neglected,  the  interest  of  the 
writer  being  centred  on  the  course  of  the  inner,  not  of  the 
outer  life.  The  inner  life,  however,  is  not  perceptible  to 
the  outsider,  except  in  general  results,  and  these  are  not 
minute  enough  to  reveal  the  ultimate  processes  of  the 


4 


GENERAL   CHARACTERISTICS. 


15 


50 


s  evident 
le  top  of 
e  Duke's 
ate  man- 
are  indi- 
n,  sir." 
es,  points 
Doet  gives 
ich  peeps 


55 

)  examine 
method, 
noting  of 
n  object ; 
|ght  upon 
)r  drama, 
of  the 
ot  of  the 
ptible  to 
are  not 
of  the 


St 


.1 


:s 


mind.  No  person  is  naturally,  or  can  artistically  be  sup- 
posed to  be,  fully  acquainted  with  a  course  of  thought, 
except  the  person  in  whose  brain  it  is  evolved.  The  novel- 
ist's plan  of  relating,  in  the  third  person,  the  inner  life, 
without  attempting  to  account  for  his  knowledge  of  it,  is 
unnatural  and  inartistic.  The  dramatists,  who  occasionally 
found  it  necessary  that  their  audience  should  know  more 
of  the  minute  processes  of  a  character's  mind  than  action 
or  natural  speech  would  reveal,  resorted  to  soliloquy,  i.e., 
to  making  the  character  think  aloud,  —  a  device  whose 
unnaturalness  custom  has  taught  us  to  overlook.  A  mere 
stream  of  thinking,  however,  such  as  soliloquy  is,  is  es- 
sentially formless,  unmoulded  by  any  organic  principle. 
Browning,  therefore,  has  in  very  many  cases  chosen  a  form 
against  which  th'^  objection  cannot  be  urged  —  the  mono- 
logue. The  monologue  is  addressed  to  a  second  person,  is 
therefore  accounted  for,  —  motivirt,  as  the  Germans  say. 
It  further  receives  organic  structure  from  being  shaped 
to  some  definite  object  which  the  speaker  has  in  view  in 
addressing  a  second  person.  By  making  this  aim,  as 
Browning  usually  does,  a  far-reaching  and  comprehensive 
one,  —  a  defence,  for  example,  of  the  speaker's  course  of 
life,  or  of  some  characteristic  opinion, — the  speaker  is 
naturally  and  necessarily  made  to  reveal  his  innermost 
soul.  This  is  to  a  certain  degree  true  of  the  poem  just 
read,  which  is  an  implicit  defence  by  the  Duke  of  his  con- 
duct towards  his  wife.  But  more  striking  examples  will 
be  found  everywhere  in  Browning's  works.  Paracelsus, 
Bishop  Blougram,  Andrea  del  Sarto,  Fifine,  Aristophanes' 
Apology,  Prince  Hohenstiel  Schwangaii,  may  be  mentioned 
as  examples.  Perhaps  there  is  no  better  illustration  of 
how  effective  and  subtle  an  instrument  this  is,  in  Brown- 
ing's hands,  for  the  revelation  of  character,  than  his  long- 
est work.  The  Ring  and  the  Book. 


f 


If) 


GENERAL   CIIARACTKRISTICS. 


This  favorite  method  of  our  poet  has,  however,  its 
inevitable  drawbacks.  In  the  first  place,  in  order  to  give 
an  accurate  picture  of  mental  processes,  a  keen  and  search- 
ing analysis  is  necessary ;  and  the  utterer  of  the  monologue 
must,  of  course,  be  credited  with  making  this.  But  only 
highly  intellectual  and  acute  minds  are  capable  of  such  a 
feat.  Hence  arises  a  feeling  of  dramatic  impropriety, 
when  simple  girls,  and  other  characters  in  whom  this  ana- 
lytic and  reflective  tendency  is  unnatural,  are  represented 
as  unfolding  their  mental  processes  in  this  way.  And  so 
we  have  the  oft-repeated  complaint  of  the  critics  that,  be- 
hind the  mask,  one  hears  the  voice  of  Browning  himself. 
Thys  much  of  his  own  personality  he  must  infuse  into  his 
characters.  An  illustration  of  this  defect  may  be  found  in 
the  poem  entitled  Caliban,  in  which  this  half-man,  half- 
brute  of  Shakespeare's  fancy  gives  expression  to  his  idea 
of  God.  The  conception  which  such  a  creature  might  form, 
is  most  graphically  and  strikingly  given.  But  what  in 
Caliban  would  have  been  vague  semi-conscious  feeling,  the 
poet  must,  perforce,  represent  as  definitely  elaborated 
thought,  of  which  Caliban  was  quite  incapable.  It  is, 
therefore,  in  characters  of  an  intellectual  type, — characters 
of  the  type  of  Bishop  Blougram,  —  that  the  poet  attains 
his  most  complete  success. 

There  is  a  second  objection  to  Browning's  favorite 
method.  Language  presents  ideas  to  the  mind  in  succes- 
sion, and  hence  is  fitted  for  the  presentation  of  movement, 
of  a  series  of  events,  —  unlike  painting,  which  presents,  not 
what  is  successive,  but  what  is  simultaneous.  The  drama 
takes  advantage  of  the  peculiarity  of  spoken  or  written  art, 
and  presents  movement,  —  a  plot  developing,  persons  act- 
ing. Browning's  form  loses  this  advantage ;  his  persons 
do  not  appear  acting,  nor  their  characters  developing. 


GINF.RAI.    t  HAKAClKkl^riCS. 


If 


its 


I 


Brownin;:;  paints  them  at  rest,  as  it  w(  re  ;  j;ives  a  portrait 
of  the  mind;  and,  u^ing  speech,  has  to  give  in  succession 
paits  whose  si;;nificance  cannot  he  fully  apprehended  until 
wc  have  some  conception  of  the  whole.  Now,  although  it 
may  be  arguetl  that  this  is  true  of  the  drama  also,  — that 
the  full  significance  of  a  speech,  a  scene,  is  not  apparent 
until  we  are  acquainted  with  the  whole  play,  —  there  is  this 
important  difference  between  the  two  cases.  A  play  is 
constructed  organically,  grows  naturally  before  our  eyes ; 
each  speech,  each  scene,  since  the  parts  of  a  play  corre- 
spond to  '  arts  in  nature,  is  a  whole  in  itself  and  has  a 
beauty  of  its  own.  But  the  parts  in  Browning's  poems  do 
not  correspond  to  parts  in  nature ;  they  are  arbitrary 
sections,  like  the  pieces  of  a  child's  puzzle-picture,  which 
have  no  beauty  or  fitness,  save  when  we  see  them  in  rela- 
tion to  the  whole.  From  this  close  dependence  of  the 
parts  upon  the  whole,  arises  that  groping,  confused  state 
of  mind  which  one  is  apt  to  experience  in  reading  a  piece 
of  Browning's  for  the  first  time.  The  mind,  not  fully 
comprehending  the  ideas,  must  h<rid  them  in  suspense  until 
the  end  is  reached.  To  this  is  owing  in  no  small  degree 
the  obscurity  with  which  Browning  is  so  often  charged  { 
and  to  illustrate  obscurity  arising  from  this  source  the 
following  poem,  in  which  is  depicted  not  a  character,  but  a 
psychological  situation,  is  cited. 


A  WOMAN^  LAST  WORD. 


Let's  contend  no  more,  Love, 

Strive  nor  weep : 
All  be  as  before,  Love, 

—  Only  sleep  1 


i8 


GENERAL    f:il ARACTERISTICS. 


It. 

What  so  wild  as  words  are  ? 

I  and  thou 
In  debate,  as  birds  are, 

Hawk  on  bough  ! 

m 

See  the  creature  stalking 

While  we  speak  ! 
Hush  and  hide  the  talking, 

Cheek  on  cheek. 

nr. 

What  so  false  as  truth  is, 

False  to  thee? 
Where  the  serpent's  tooth  is. 

Shun  the  tree  — 

% 

Where  the  apple  reddens, 

Never  pry  — 
Lest  we  lost  our  Edens, 

Eve  and  I. 

Be  a  god  and  hold  me 

With  r.  charm  ! 
Be  a  man  and  fold  me 

With  thine  arm  ! 


Teach  me,  only  teach,  Love  ! 

As  I  ought 
I  will  speak  thy  speech.  Love, 

Think  thy  thought  — 


GENERAL   CHARACTERISTICS. 

VIU. 
Meet,  if  thou  require  it, 

Both  demands. 
Laying  flesh  and  spirit 

In  thy  hands. 

DC. 

That  shall  be  to-morrow. 

Not  to-night : 
I  must  bury  sorrow 

Out  of  sight : 


19 


—  Must  a  little  weep.  Love, 

(Foolish  me !) 
And  so  &11  asleep,  Love, 

Loved  by  thee. 

On  first  reading  this  poem  most  persons  will  fail  to 
catch  not  only  the  connection  of  the  various  thoughts, 
but  also  the  general  situation.  The  following  paraphrase 
attempts  to  give  both;  but  as  the  poem  depicts  an  ex- 
tremely complex  condition  of  feeling,  its  characteristic 
excellence  vanishes  in  the  coarse  prose  rendering ;  as  a 
picture  whose  beauty  Hes  in  the  subtle  transition  of  one 
shade  or  tint  into  another,  loses  its  charm  when  reduced 
to  the  definite  outlines  of  a  line  engraving. 

In  this  poem  , .  woman  addresses  her  lover.  Before  she 
met  him  she  hid  already  loved,  and  that  experience,  how- 
ever it  ended,  has  left  ar.  indelible  impression  on  her  spirit. 
Of  this  her  lover  hiu?  some  inkling;  and  he  would  fain 
probe  her  past,  make  it  his,  as  her  present  is  his.  She,  on  her 
side,  fears  the  consequences  of  such  revelations.  "Why," 
she  says,  (i.)  "rake  up  the  past?  let  us  be  satisfied  with 
pui^  present  happiness.      We  tempt  misfortune  in  thus 


20 


GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS. 


wrangling ;  the  demon  of  mistrust  and  jealousy  hangs 
over  us,  ready  to  destroy  our  love  (ii.,  in.).  Be  not  so 
eager  to  know  the  truth  of  my  past  life,  now  no  longer 
true  since  it  represents  me  as  not  yours.  As  amidst  the 
fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  lurked  the  serpent  which 
destroyed  Eve's  paradise  so  in  this  knowledge  which  you 
seek,  lurks  danger  to  the  paradise  of  our  love  (iv.,  v.).  Why 
this  anxiety  about  my  being  wholly  yours  ?  Yours  I  must 
be  if  you  but  exert  your  power.  Do  not  pry  into  the  past, 
but  teach  me  for  the  future,  and  I  will  lose  myself  wholly 
in  you"  (vi.,  vii.,  viii.).  But  even  in  giving  utterance  to 
these  last  words,  she  feels  the  past  assert  its  power  over 
her  soul ;  and  in  the  inconsistency  between  the  feeling 
of  yearning  and  sadness  for  the  past,  and  the  happiness 
and  love  -of  the  present  lies  the  pathetic  force,  —  that 
strange  touch  of  nature  that  goes  direct  to  the  heart, —  and 
the  poem  reaches  a  psychological  climax  in  the  mingled 
pathos  and  content  of  the  closing  stanzas,  "  That  shall  be 
to-morrow,"  etc. 

We  now  pass  to  another  characteristic  of  Browning's 
genius  and  work.  /  An  interest  in  events,  in  the  actions 
of  men,  is  universal  in  human  nature.  On  the  contrary, 
an  interest  in  the  anatomizing  and  laying  bare  of  the 
workings  of  the  mind  is  a  scientific  tendency,  shared 
only  by  the  intellectual  few.  The  exhibition  of  life,  of 
this  ever-varying  and  many-colored  scene  of  human  joys 
and  sorrows,  struggles  and  toils,  is  something  which 
appeals  to  men  by  the  very  constitution  of  their  nature. 
It  requires  no  intellectual  attitude  of  mind,  no  power 
of  analysis  to  follow  with  interest  the  representations  of 
human  life  in  epic  or  drama.  It  is  an  emotional,  not  an 
intellectual  attitude  we  assume  when  we  are  wrapped  in 
the  fortunes  of  Lear,  of  Juliet,  of  Othello  ;  whereas  in 


GENERAL   CHARACTERISTICS. 


21 


)usy  hangs 
Be  not  so 

no  longer 
amidst  the 
pent  which 
which  you 
,  v.).  Why 
)urs  I  must 
to  the  past, 
self  wholly 
tterance  to 
power  over 
the  feeling 

happiness 
rce,  —  that 
eart, —  and 
le  mingled 
lat  shall  be 

browning's 
le  actions 
contrary, 
re  of  the 
:y,  shared 
of  life,  of 
jman  joys 
ng  which 
ir  nature, 
no  power 
tations  of 
lal,  not  an 
rapped  in 
hereas  in 


I 


the  analysis  of  the  workings  of  the  mind  the  reasoning 
and  observing  powers  are  dominant,  and  emotion  is  but 
secondarily  stimulated.  A  man,  then,  who  is  successful 
in  making  this  analysis,  and  reproducing  it,  must  be  one  in 
whom  intellect  is  in  the  ascendant.  Such  is  pre-eminently 
the  case  with  Browning.  He  is  a  keen  and  subtle  observer, 
with  a  scientific  delight  in  detecting  and  exposing  the  finest 
fibres  of  the  mind.  As  he  watches  the  world  about  him, 
he  is  too  intent  on  seizing  indications  of  the  hidden  play 
of  cause  and  efifect  in  the  brain,  to  be  carried  away  by 
sympathy,  and  to  lose  the  sense  of  his  identity  in  the  scene 
before  him.  But  it  is  this  very  capacity  of  losing  one's 
self  in  one's  subject,  this  power  of  imagination  in  virtue 
of  which  we  identify  ourselves  with  the  feelings  of  another, 
that  make  the  supreme  poet,  —  that  enables  him  to  repro- 
duce with  overpowering  truth  a  character  or  emotion  that 
is  not  his  own.  This  cannot  be  the  case  with  Browning 
from  the  very  nature  of  the  subject-matter  to  which  he  has 
applied  himself.  Were  he  dominatd  by  emotion,  by  interest 
in  outer  action,  he  could  not  produce  his  subtle  renderings 
of  the  inner  life.  The  age  imposes  its  subject,  and  the 
subject  in  turn  imposes  its  method;  the  successful  poet 
must  be  in  harmony  with  both. 

The  intellectual  attitude  which  Browning  exhibits  in 
depicting  subtleties  of  character  and  psychological  situa- 
tions, being  unfavorable  to  emotion,  unfits  him  for  giving 
expression  to  moods ;  in  other  words,  unfits  him  for  lyrical 
poetry.  We  trace  the  same  temperament  in  his  descrip- 
tions of  nature,  in  which  he  does  not  render  the  general  at- 
mosphere of  the  scene,  — does  not  submit  himself  to  it,  and 
allow  himself  to  absorb  its  general  character ;  but,  active 
and  keenly  observant,  reproduces  the  projecting  points  of 
the  landscape,  and  striking  details  with  minute  accuracy. 


23 


GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS. 


The  background,  the  general  atmosphere,  which  blends 
these  into  unity,  he  commonly  neglects.  And  so  Browning 
does  not  excel  in  the  lyric  or  song,  which  is  the  poetical 
expression  of  a  dominating  feeling.  His  most  successful 
songs  are  not  truly  lyrical,  but  dramatic.  That  is  to  say, 
the  poet  does  not  give  expression  to  his  own  feelings,  but, 
standing  outside  his  theme,  conceives  how  some  other 
mind  would  have  expressed  itself  under  the  influence 
of  a  given  mood.  The  interest  of  such  a  song  lies 
rather  in  its  dramatic  than  in  its  lyrical  character;  the 
person  represented  as  uttering  it  is  more  interesting 
to  us  than  the  sentiment  he  utters.  We  enjoy  the 
poem  when  we  have  caught  the  dramatic  conception, 
rather  than,  as  in  the  true  lyric,  when  we  have  caught 
the  mood. 

Here,  for  example,  in  the  Cavalier  Song  about  to  be 
cited,  the  poet  manages  to  bring  before  his  reader's  eyes 
an  animated  picture.  The  speaker  is  a  typical  cava- 
lier of  the  days  of  Charles  I.,  imbued  with  the  sentiment 
of  personal  devotion  to  the  king  which  characterized  his 
party.  And  well  may  he  be  so  :  for,  as  we  gather  from 
the  poem,  his  ancient  house  has  been  raised  from  decay, 
and  enriched  by  the  bounty  of  the  king,  to  whom  he  owes 
everything,  and  for  whom  — now  that  evil  days  are  come 
for  royalty  —  he  gladly  sacrifices  it  all.  Nay,  more  than 
that,  his  boy,  his  darling  and  pride,  has  fallen  in  the 
cause,  captured  and  shot  by  the  troopers  of  Noll,  as  he 
contemptuously  styles  the  great  Oliver.  The  time  is  the 
very  height  of  the  Civil  War,  when  the  issue  still  hangs  in 
the  balance.  The  scene  we  must  picture  is  a  banqueting 
hall,  whose  roof  re-echoes  to  the  crashing  of  glasses,  and 
to  the  shouts  of  enthusiastic  cavaliers,  as  they  respond  to 
the  toast  of  their  comrade  :  — 


GENERAL   CHARACi  ERISTICS. 


n 


King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  a  fight  now  ? 
Give  a  rouse  :  here's,  in  Hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles ! 

II. 
WJ"^  ^ive  me  the  goods  that  went  since? 
\V      raised  me  the  house  that  sank  once  ? 
Who  helped  me  to  gold  I  spent  since  ? 
Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank  once  ? 

(Chorus)  ^tng  Charles,  and  who'ii  do  him  tii^hf  now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  a  fight  now  f 
Give  a  rouse :  here's,  in  Ileli's  despite  now. 
King  Charles  / 


III. 
To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quaff  else, 
By  the  old  fool's  side  that  begot  him  ? 
For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else, 
While  Noll's  damned  troopers  shot  him  ? 

(Chorus)  King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  a  fight  now  ? 
Give  a  rouse :  here's,  in  Hell's  despiU-  now. 
King  Charles  / 

Browning's  lyrics  draw  attention  to  a  point  that  might 
have  been  noted  earlier.  It  is  in  lyrics,  most  of  all,  that 
we  look  for  perfection  in  the  garb  of  poetry,  —in  versifi- 
cation, language,  and  rhythm,  —  for  felicity  and  ease  of 
expression.  In  Browning's  lyrics  these  are  conspicuously 
lackmg,  as  they  are,  to  a  less  noticeable  degree,  in  his  other 
works.  It  is  true  that  in  the  piece  just  quoted,  and  in 
some  others,  there  is  a  swing  and  animation  in  metre, 
which  partially  compensates  for  such   defects;  but  this 


24 


GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS. 


swing  is  rarely  attained,  and,  in  any  case,  there  remains  a 
harshness  of  consonantal  combination  which  seems  to  be 
natural  to  Browning.  His  lyrical  metres  are  nearly  always 
jerky,  his  rhymes  often  fairly  astounding  in  their  uncouth- 
ness.  He  introduces  into  serious  poems  combinations 
like  "dab  brick"  and  "fabric,"  which  had  hitherto  been 
employed  for  comic  effect.  In  diction  and  phrase  there 
is  much  of  the  same  uncouthness.  In  his  higher  passages, 
he  seems  to  be  struggling  with  only  partial  success  to  ex- 
press his  meaning ;  elsewhere  he  appears  wantonly  to 
exaggerate  the  natural  oddities  of  his  utterance.  There 
can  be  found  in  his  works  few,  if  any,  passages,  which 
produce  that  impression  of  perfect  workmanship,  to  which 
passages  in  Shakespeare,  Milton,  or  Wordsworth  so  often 
give  rise. 

The  sources  of  these  peculiarities  are  doubtless  also  in 
some  measure  traceable  to  the  nature  of  Browning's  sub- 
ject-matter and  of  his  genius,  '^oth  genius  and  subject 
are,  as  we  have  seen,  unfavorable  to  the  complete  absorp- 
tion of  the  poet's  individuality  in  the  creations  of  his  im- 
agination.'^ Now  the  highest  poetry  is  written  under  the 
influence  of  poetic  inspiration.  The  imagination  acts  so 
powerfully  that  the  poet,  being  completely  absorbed  in  his 
subject,  is  no  longer  conscious  of  the  working  of  his  rea- 
soning and  constructive  powers.  He  seems  to  himself  to 
be  merely  the  medium  cf  some  higher  influence.  We  have 
the  testimony  of  several  great  poets  that  this  is  their  ex- 
perience in  producing  their  best  work.  Goethe  says  as 
much  in  his  conversations  with  Eckermann.  Wordsworth 
tells  how  from  time  to  time  as  he  wrote,  this  feeling  of 
inspiration  came  over  him  ;  and  Wordsworth  is  remarkable 
for  occasional  passages  in  which  expression  seems  to  be  ab- 
solutely perfect,  and  which  produce  the  impression  (as  both 


GENERAL   CHARACTERISTICS. 


35 


Mr.  Lowell  and  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  have  observed)  that 
Nature  herself  is  writing  without  the  intervention  of  the 
poet's  mind.  As  complete  absorption  seems  to  be  a  factor 
in  perfection  of  expression,  we  may  naturally  conclude  that, 
conversely,  its  absence,  as  in  the  case  of  Browning,  will 
result  in  defective  expression,  —  the  conscious  struggle  of 
the  poet  to  represent  his  thought,  being  apparent  to  the 
reader  in  the  harsh  and  ill-moulded  form. 

Even  apart  from  his  oddities  of  expression  and  versifica- 
tion, there  is  a  tendency  in  Browning  to  the  out-of-the-way 
in  subject  and  illustration.  With  regard  to  the  former, 
it  may  be  said  that,  just  as  dramatists  usually  choose  as 
their  theme  some  striking  situation,  some  clash  of  cir- 
cumstances ;  so  the  poet  of  the  mind  must  select  striking 
psychological  situations, — the  clash  of  opposing  tendencies 
in  the  mind,  the  almost  paradoxical  co-existence  of  conflict- 
ing characteristics  and  emotions.  And  with  regard  to  his 
figures,  the  poet  may  plead  that,  in  these  latter  days  when 
by  long  use  obvious  comparisons  have  grown  trite,  oddity 
serves  to  give  that  vividness  which  it  is  the  very  object  of 
figurative  language  to  attain. 

These  last-named  peculiarities,  as  well  as  others  we  have 
noted,  find  illustration  in  the  short  selection  with  which 
this  chapter  concludes.  In  the  first  place,  the  poem 
places  before  us  a  curious  mental  situation,  —  curious 
because  of  the  incongruity  between  the  condition  of  the 
speaker,  who  is  a  dying  man,  and  the  thoughts  with  which 
he  is  busied ;  yet  we  cannot  but  feel,  as  we  read,  that, 
though  the  state  of  mind  may  be  unusual,  we  have  here  a 
true  touch  of  nature.  And  besides,  the  very  contrast 
between  the  present  condition  of  the  speaker,  and  the  past 
which  he  so  vividly  recalls,  lends  an  exquisite  depth  of 
pathos  to  this  little  piece.     In  the  second  place,  we  have 


26 


GENERAL    CHARACTEKISTICS. 


the  grotesque  use  of  the  row  of  medicine  bottles  to  make 
clear  the  scene  which  the  dying  man  beholds  with  his 
inner  eye.  He  addresses  a  clergyman  by  his  bedside,  who 
has  just  been  suggesting  a  conventional  thought. 

CONFESSIONS. 


What  is  he  buzzing  in  my  ears  ? 

"  Now  that  I  come  to  die, 
Do  I  view  the  world  as  a  vale  of  tears  ? 

Ah,  reverend  sir,  not  I ! 


II. 


What  I  viewed  there  once,  what  I  view  again, 

Where  the  physic  bottles  stand 
On  the  table's  edge,  —  is  a  suburb  lane 

With  a  wall  to  my  bedside  hand. 


m. 


That  lane  sloped,  much  as  the  bottles  do. 
From  a  house  you  could  descry 

O'er  the  garden-wall :  is  the  curtain  blue 
Or  green  to  a  healthy  eye  ? 


w. 


To  mine,  it  serves  for  the  old  June  weather 

Blue  above  lane  and  wall ; 
And  that  farthest  bottle  labelled  "  Ether  " 

Is  the  house  o'er-topping  all. 


V. 


At  a  terrace,  somewhere  near  the  stopper. 
There  watched  for  me,  one  June, 

A  girl :  I  know,  sir,  it's  improper. 
My  poor  mind's  out  of  tune. 


GENERAL   CHARACTERISTICS. 


»7 


VL 


Only,  there  was  a  way  .  .  .  you  crept 

Close  by  the  side,  to  dodge 
Eyes  in  the  house,  two  eyes  except : 

They  styled  their  house  "  The  Lodge." 


vu. 


What  right  had  a  lounger  up  their  lane  ? 

But,  by  creeping  very  close, 
With  the  good  wall's  help,  —  their  eyes  might  strain 

And  stretch  themselves  to  Oes, 


•*»'■ 


vm. 


Yet  never  catch  her  and  me  together. 

As  she  left  the  attic,  there, 
By  the  rim  of  the  bottle  labelled  "  Ether," 

And  stole  from  stair  to  stair, 


4-  m 


DC. 

And  stood  by  the  rose-wreathed  gate.     Alas. 

We  loved,  sir  —  used  to  meet : 
How  sad  and  bad  and  mad  it  was  — 

But  then,  how  it  was  sweet ! 

— {Drama/is  Personce,  p.  162.) 


■■0 

■>4 


38 


BKOWNINCi  S    rillLOSOPHY. 


CHAPTER    II. 


BROWNING'S   PHILOSOPHY. 


\ 


Having  in  the  preceding  chapter  attempted  to  point  out, 
and  in  some  measure  account  for  Browning's  most  charac- 
teristic and  pervading  peculiarities  in  subject,  treatment, 
and  form,  we  now  proceed  to  examine  his  works  in  regard 
to  certain  special  aspects.  The  present  chapter,  in  the 
first  place,  presents  a  view  of  what  may  be  called,  for  lack 
of  a  better  term.  Browning's  philosophy.  It  is  a  side  which 
bulks  more  largely,  and  has  greater  interest  in  the  case  of 
Browning  than  of  most  poets,  on  account  of  the  existence 
in  him  of  that  scientific  and  philosophic  bent  which  has 
already  made  itself  manifest  both  in  his  choice  of  subject 
and  in  its  treatment. 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  the  metaphysician  in  Browning. 
■  He  is  not  a  poet  who,  struck  by  the  beauty  and  emotional 
interest  of  the  various  scenes  of  human  life,  poetically 
reproduces  them  in  a  series  of  pictures,  without  thought  of 
the  general  truths  which  they  illustrate.^/  On  the  contrary, 
it  is  a  striking  mark  of  his  mental  character  that  for  him 
the  apparently  trifling  and  ordinary  events  of  life  are 
pregnant  with  abstract  teaching,  and  have  a  high  worth 
as  manifestations  of  universal  truths.  K  In  this  tendency 
Browning  again  shows  himself  a  child  of  his  age,  — is  an 
exemplification  of  the  self-conscious,  probing  spirit  of  the 
time.  He  is  not  content  to  accept  the  beauty  about  him, 
and  the  interplay  of  human  life  for  their  own  sake  merely. 
^eiieath_them,  he  seeks  for  the  general  truths  which  they 


browning's  philosophy. 


29 


embody.     In  his  poems  the  task  he  sets  before  him  is  not 
merely  that  of  depicting  life  and  character ;  he  also  brings 
forward  ancl  exemplifies,  in  these  concrete  pictures,  some 
far-reaching  general  truth.      Browning  is,  then,  in  some 
degree,  a  philosopher — an  expounder  of  an  abstract  system ; 
and  for  the  proper  understanding  of  much  of  his  poetry,  a 
knowledge  of  the  main  outlines  of  his  system  is  necessary. 
It  is  a  recognized  truth  of  psychology  that  men's  per- 
ceptions of  an  object  are  by  no  means  wholly  determined 
by  the  object  itself.     The  images  in  the  brain  of  an  ordi- 
nary layman  and  of  a  skilled  anatomist,  as  they  view  the 
same  dissected  limb,  are  very  different.     The  man  of  taste 
and  culture  sees  something  invisible  to  the  uneducated 
peasant,  in  the  painting  of  a  g^eat  master.     What  we  see 
is  what  we  have  been  trained  to  see,  and  what  in  virtue  of 
our  temperament  catches  our  attention.     If  this  be  true  in 
the  case  of  single  simple  objects  (and  it  is  true  to  an  extent 
which  most  people  have  never  realized),  in  a  much  greater 
degree  must  it  be  true  when  the  object  in  question  is  the 
whole  complex  universe.     In  so  vast  an  array  of  objects 
and  qualities,  we  unconsciously  select  and  dwell  upon  those 
which  are  in  harmony  with  our  inner  self.     The  problems 
of  philosophy  are  too  complex  for  the  application  through- 
out of  strictly  logical  methods,  equally  valid  for  all  jninds. 
The  solutions,  therefore,  into  which  an  ever-varying  sub- 
jective factor  enters,   must   necessarily   vary.       And   so 
BroMming's  view  of  God,  of  Nature,  of  Man,  is  determined 
by  his  temperament,  by  the  fact  that   his  mind's  eye  is 
quicker  to  observe  certain  kinds  of  phenomena  than  others. 
His  philosophy  is  involved  in  the  tendency  we  have  already 
had  occasion  to  emphasize,  —  the  tendency  to  fix  the  atten- 
tion on  the  inner  rather  than  the  outer  life,  the  life  of  the 
soul  rather  than  on  visible  phenomena.     ''My  stress,"  he 


m 
iti 

H 


7*0 


•M 


30 


DKOVVNINCi  S    rillLOSOIMlY. 


says  in  his  dedication  of  Sotuiillo,  "  lay  on  the  incidents  in 
the  development  of  the  soul  ;  little  else  is  worth  study." 
Now  tiie  tendency  to  dwell  on  the  inner  rather  than  on  the 
outer  life,  on  mind  rather  than  on  matter,  on  the  conscious- 
ness of  self  rather  than  on  the  consciousness  of  somethin<^ 
outside  self,  has  always,  in  the  history  of  thought,  marked 
the  idealist  in  opposition  to  the  materialist,  lirowning  is, 
then,  an  idealist,  something  even  of  a  transcendentalist. 

If  we  accept  the  division  of  the  universe  into  physical 
and  spiritual,  we  note  a  striking  difference  between  the  two 
sides.  The  physical  world  is  under  the  domination  of 
natural  law ;  it  moves  in  certain  uniform  grooves.  In  the 
spiritual  world  there  sums  at  least  to  be  a  striking  contrast 
to  this  state  of  things  ;  those  who  maintain  otherwise  have 
not  yet  demonstrated  their  thesis.  To  men  in  general,  this 
characteristic  of  the  physical  world  which  science  is  so 
clearly  impressing  on  the  minds  of  this  generation,  —  the 
rule  of  law,  —  is  in  its  unrelenting  uniformity  the  very 
antithesis  of  the  spiritual,  of  all  we  connect  with  the  idea 
of  personality.  The  epithet  "impersonal"  comes  natu- 
rally to  our  minds  when  we  conceive  physical  force.  When, 
on  the  other  hand,  we  think  of  the  spiritual  world,  of  the 
world  of  persons  as  opposed  to  the  world  of  force  and 
matter,  the  prominent  differentiating  characters  are  two. 
In  the  first  place,  we  find  an  elerxnt  of  originative  force, 
and  hence  of  freedom  and  unccrtaint ;;  —  in  short,  of  those 
attributes  which,  whether  really  oistent  or  not,  each  man 
seems  to  feel  within  himself,  and  which  we  name  Will.  In 
the  second  place,  we  find  the  element  of  emotion,  an  elfim£nt 
which  seems  as  essential  to  personal  action  as  it  is  incori- 
sistent  with  the  great  controlling  forces  of  material  nature. 
The  manifestations  of  will  and  emotion,  the  two  differen- 
tiating and  essential  qualities  of  that  spiritual  and  personal 


BROWNING  S    PHILOSOPHY. 


31 


world  in  which  Browning  is  interested,  are,  accordingly, 
the  phenomena  which  most  easily  arrest  and  hold  his 
mental  eye.  Even  in  material  nature,  where  our  age  in 
general  can  only  see  the  uniform  action  of  impersonal 
law,  he  feels  the  presence  of  emotion :  — 

The  centre-fire  heaves  underneath  the  earth, 

And  the  earth  changes  like  a  human  face ; 

'I'he  molten  ore  bursts  up  among  the  rocks, 

Winds  into  the  stone's  heart,  outbranches  bright 

In  hidden  mines,  spots  barren  river-beds. 

Crumbles  into  fine  sand  where  sunbeams  bask  — 

God  joys  therein  !    The  wroth  sea's  waves  are  edged 

With  foam,  white  as  the  bitten  lip  of  Hate, 

When  in  the  solitary  waste,  strange  groups 

Of  young  volcanoes  come  up,  cyclops-like. 

Staring  together  with  their  eyes  on  flame  ;  — 

God  tastes  a  pleasure  in  their  uncouth  pride  I 

Then  all  is  still :  earth  is  a  wintry  clod ; 

But  spring-wind,  like  a  dancing  psaltress,  passes 

Over  its  breast  to  waken  it;  rare  verdure 

Buds  tenderly  upon  rough  banks,  between 

The  withered  tree-roots  and  the  cracks  of  frost. 

Like  a  smile  striving  with  a  wrinkled  face ; 

The  grass  grows  bright,  the  boughs  arc  swolu  with  blooms 

Like  chrysalids  impatient  of  the  air ; 

The  shining  dorrs  are  busy ;  beetles  run 

Along  the  furrows,  ants  make  their  ado ; 

Above,  birds  fly  in  merry  flocks  —  the  lark 

Soars  up  and  up,  shivering  for  very  joy ; 

Afar  the  ocean  sleeps ;  white  fishing-gulls 

Flit  where  the  strand  is  purple  with  its  tribe 

Of  nested  limpets ;  savage  creatures  seek 

Their  loves  in  wood  and  plain ;  and  God  renews 

His  ancient  rapture  !  —  {Paracelsus,  V.) 


SI 

•  «n 

M 

J 


10 


33 


RROWNING  S   PHILOSOPHY. 


Nature  to  Browning  is  no  vast  machine  rolling  inexorably 
on  its  destined  path,  behind  which,  if  there  be  any  force 
which  we  can  call  God,  he  is  far  removed  and  works  on  us 
only  through  secondary  causes,  uniform  and  predictable. 
On  God  manifest  in  law,  the  God  of  Western  science  and 
logic.  Browning's  poetry  does  not  much  dwell,  but  rather 
on  the  God  of  Eastern  thought,  the  God  of  religion  who  is 
not  far  from  any  one  of  us.  Like  his  own  Luria,  who 
represents  the  Eastern  world.  Browning  feels  the  imme- 
diate presence  of  a  personal  divinity. 


"  My  own  East !  "  [says  Luria] 
"  How  nearer  God  we  were  !    He  glows  above 
With  scarce  an  intervention,  presses  close 
And  palpitatingly.  His  soul  o'er  ours : 
We  feel  Him,  nor  by  painful  reiison  know  ! 
The  everlasting  minute  of  creation 
Is  felt  there  ;  now  it  is,  as  it  was  then ; 
All  changes  at  his  instantaneous  will. 
Not  by  the  operation  of  a  law 
Whose  maker  is  elsewhere  at  other  work. 
His  soul  is  still  engaged  upon  his  world  — 
Man's  praise  can  forward  it,  Man's  prayer  suspend. 
For  is  not  God  all- mighty?    To  recast 
The  world,  erase  old  things,  and  make  them  new. 
What  costs  it  Him?  — {Luria,  p.  284.) 

It  is  not  for  a  moment  to  be  insinuated  that  Browning 
does  not  recognize  the  other  aspect  of  Nature,  does  not 
accept  the  general  results  of  science ;  but,  unlike  his  age, 
it  is  not  this  side  which  attracts  him  most.  We  look 
in  vain  in  Browning's  poetry  for  an  expression  of  the  per- 
vading scientific  enthusiasm  which  glories  in  our  rapid 
advance  in  the  knowledge  and  command  of  material  natur::, 


browning's  philosophy. 


II 


and  in  the  prospect  thus  unfolded  of  the  future  well-being 
of  the  race.     For  that  we  must  go  to  Tennyson. 

Again,  while  to  science  man  is  but  a  part  of  nature,  and, 
whether  in  regard  to  space  or  time,  occupies  but  a  small 
angle  in  the  horizon;  to  Browning  nature  h  but  an  adjunct 
to  man,  who  is  the  head  and  centre  of  things, 

—  the  consummation  of  this  scheme 
Of  being,  the  completion  of  this  sphere 
Oflife. 

Further,  it  is  not  man  in  the  mass,  that  most  interests  him,    i 
not  the  social  and  political  progress  of  the  race,  but  the 
life  and  destiny  of  the  individual    There  he  finds  charao* 
ter,  will,  emotion — all  that  seems  to  him  most  worthy  of 

study.  J 

It  is  manifest  that  a  great  difficulty  presents  itself  to 
one  who  thus  regards  the  individual  soul  as  the  highest 
thing  in  the  world,  for  whose  development  the  world  itself 
exists.  From  his  poiat  of  view,  the  world  is  apparently  a 
failure.  The  soul's  highest  aspirations  are  unsatisfied,  its 
destiny  unrounded.  By  struggle,  by  suffering,  the  soul 
may  indeed  be  perfected  ;  but  this  precious  product  seems 
carefully  elaborated  only  to  perish.  The  work  is  thrown 
away ;  the  struggle  finds  no  reward.  This  thought  the 
poet  h^s  dramatically  emb-.;ie(  »>  C/eon,  one  of  the  poems 
contained  in  Men  and  Women. 

The  picturesque  rVi^;.  .  which  the  poet  has  chosen  for 
the  presentation  of  the  tf  ouQrht  of  this  poem,  is  adm-rablv 
adapted  to  its  purpose.  Ciecn,  who  is  to  typify  the  higM.:>t 
development  of  which  th».'  individual  man  is  capable  in  this 
world,  is  the  consummate  flower  of  the  most  perfect,  if  not 
the  highest,  civilization  which  the  world  has  seen.  He  is  a 
Greek  of  the  beginning  of  our  era,  the  ccmpiex  product  of 


34 


BROWNINGS   PHILOSOPHY. 


that  many-sided  culture  which  belongs  to  the  last  phase  of 
the  intellectual  life  of  Greece.  As  poet,  artist,  philosopher, 
he  unites  in  himself  all  the  intellectual  aptitudes  of  man ; 
and  each  of  these  has  been  brought  to  the  highest  perfec- 
tion compatible  with  the  equilibrium  of  the  whole.  In 
each  of  these  departments  his  creative  efforts  have  attained 
success,  and  he  enjoys  fame  and  favor  aliice  among  the 
masses  and  the  cultivated  few.  Material  aids  to  felicity  are 
not  wanting.  He  is  surrounded  by  beauty  ;  all  means  to 
sensuous  pleasure  are  at  his  disposal.  If  there  is  any  satis- 
faction in  life,  surely  he  has  found  it.  So,  at  least  thinks 
the  great  and  fortunate  King  Protus,  who,  feeling  the  in- 
adequacy, as  regards  happiness,  of  his  own  successful 
career,  and  the  need  of  some  consolation  in  the  face  of 
inevitable  death,  writes  to  inquire  if  Cleon's  life  has 
brought  him  satisfaction.  The  poem  is  Cleon's  epistle  in 
reply.  Browning,  in  introducing  Protus,  exhausts,  as  it 
were,  the  possibilities  of  life.  If  neither  Protus,  the  suc- 
cessful man  of  action  who  possesses  power  and  the  other 
substantial  aims  of  life,  nor  Cleon,  the  contemplative  spirit, 
king  in  the  creative  realm  of  the  thinker  and  artist,  has 
found  satisfaction  here  for  the  aspirations  of  the  soul,  the 
solution  of  the  problem  must  be  sought  elsewhere. 

The  quotation  prefixed  to  the  poem  indicates  the  point 
from  which  Cleon's  reasonings  start ;  —  he  believes  in  one 
God,  whose  children  we  are.  This  seems  so  clear  and 
so  fundamental  a  fact  to  Browning,  that  he  larely,  if  ever, 
represents  in  his  personages  a  scepticism  which  attacks  it„ 
or  attempts  to  discuss  it.  The  opening  paragraphs  strike 
a  note  of  sensuous  richness,  which  instils  a  sense  of 
beauty  of  the  world,  and  of  Cleon's  keen  appreciation 
of  it. 


L-V 

*'  .t 


>  t 


I  ^i 


browning's  philosophy. 


35 


m 


( t 


CLEON. 

"  As  certain  also  of  your  own  poets  have  said  "  —  > 

Cleon  the  poet,  (from  the  sprinkled  isles, 

Lily  on  lily,  that  o'erlace  the  sea, 

And  laugh  their  pride  when  the  light  wave  lisps  "  Greece  ") 

To  Protus  in  his  Tyranny :  much  health  I 


They  give  thy  letter  to  me,  even  now : 
I  read  and  seem  as  if  I  heard  thee  speak. 
The  master  of  thy  galley  still  unlades 
Gift  after  gift;  they  block  my  court  at  last 
And  pile  themselves  along  its  portico 
Royal  with  sunset,  like  a  thought  of  thee ; 
And  one  white  she-slave,  from  the  group  dispersed 
Of  black  and  white  slaves,  (like  the  chequer-work 
Pavement,  at  once  my  nation's  work  and  gift 
Now  covered  with  this  settle-down  of  doves) 
One  lyric  woman,  in  her  crocus  vest 
Woven  of  sea-wools,  with  her  two  white  hands 
Commends  to  me  the  strainer  and  the  cup 
Thy  lip  hath  bettered  ere  it  blesses  mine. 


lO 


»5 


Cf."  counselled,  king,  in  thy  munificence ! 
Foi  so  shall  men  remark,  in  such  an  act 
\y  \  >ve  for  him  whose  song  gives  life  its  joy, 
Tn/  neicc^nition  of  the  use  of  life : 
Nor  call  thy  spirit  barely  adequate 
To  help  on  life  in  straight  ways,  broad  enough 
For  vulgar  souls,  by  ruling  and  the  rest. 
Thou,  in  the  daily  building  of  thy  tower,  — 
Whether  in  fierce  and  sudden  spasms  of  toil, . 


20 


25 


»  Acts  xvu.  28,  "As  certain  of  your  own  poets  have  said,  For  we  are  also 
his  ofFjpring." 


^1 


*«1 


*3 


36 


BROWNING  S    PHILOSOrHV. 


i 


Or  through  dim  lulls  of  unapparent  growth, 
Or  when  the  general  work  'mid  good  acclaim 
Climbed  with  the  eye  to  cheer  the  architect,  — 
Didst  ne'er  engage  in  work  for  mere  work's  sake 
Hadst  ever  in  thy  heart  the  luring  hope 
Of  some  eventual  rest  a-top  of  it. 
Whence,  all  the  tumult  of  the  building  hushed. 
Thou  first  of  men  mightst  look  out  to  the  East : 
The  vulgar  saw  thy  tower,  thou  sawest  the  sun. 
For  this,  I  promise       thy  festival 
To  pour  libation,  looi.  .■"  ''  t  tiie  sea. 
Making  this  slave  narr  ,ic   .  y  fortunes,  speak 
Thy  great  words,  and  desc/ic  ,  thy  royal  face  — 
Wishing  thee  wholly  where  Zeus  lives  the  most, 
Within  the  eventual  element  of  calm. 


II 


i^ 


$s 


40 


Neither  Protus,  then,  nor  Cleon  could  rest  satisfied  with 
mere  activity.  They  felt  the  need  of  an  aim  and  outcome 
to  life. 


Thy  letter's  first  requirement  meets  me  here. 
It  is  as  thou  hast  heard  :  in  one  short  life 
I,  Cleon,  have  effected  all  those  things 
Thou  wonderingly  dost  enumerate. 
That  epos  on  thy  hundred  plates  of  gold 
Is  mine,  and  also  mine  the  little  chant 
So  sure  to  rise  from  every  fishing-bark 
When,  lights  at  prow,  the  seamen  haul  their  net. 
The  image  of  the  sun-god  on  the  phare, 
Men  turn  from  the  sun's  self  to  see,  is  mine ; 
The  Poecile,  o'er-storied  its  whole  length. 
As  thou  didst  hear,  with  painting,  is  mine  too. 
I  know  the  true  proportions  of  a  man 
And  woman  also,  not  observed  before ; 
And  I  have  written  three  books  on  the  soul, 


50 ' 


m 


4 

i 


browning's  philosophy.  |« 

Proving  absurd  all  written  hitherto, 

And  putting  us  to  ignorance  again. 

For  music,  —  why,  I  have  combined  the  moods,  60 

Inventing  one.     In  brief,  all  arts  are  mine ;  .        ~ 

Thus  much  the  people  know  and  recognize. 

Throughout  our  seventeen  islands. 

Note  in  the  above  passage  the  many-sidedness  of  Cieon's 
nature,  his  capacity  for  enjoying  and  appreciating  all  that 
earth  affords.     This  type  of  character  is  not  only  suited  to 
Browning's  ulterior  purpose  in  the  poem,  but  also  in  keep- 
ing with  the  era  and  country  to  which  Cleon  is  assigned 
Although  m  this  poem,  character-painting  holds  a  secondary 
place,  and  the  chief  interest  is  reserved  for  the  topic  under 
discussion;  yet  through  almost  unperceptible  touches  we 
feel   the  man  Cleon  behind   his  letter  -  highly-cultured, 
dignified,  self-conscious,  egoistic,   with  a   certain  lack  of 
animation,  an  exhaustion  which  is  apt  to  characterize  indi- 
viduals  and  ages  of  high  culture.     There  is  just  a  touch  of 
tediousness  too,  in  admirable  keeping  with  the  rest  of  his 
character. 

He  goes  on,  in  the  passage  which  follows,  to  explain  his 
own  greatness  as  compared  with  the  greatness  of  the  men 
of  earlier  ages,  and  is  so  led  to  demonstrate  that  progress 
IS  the  law  of  this  world  -  progress  from  the  simple  to  the 
complex. 

Marvel  not ! 

We  of  these  latter  days,  with  greater  mind 

Than  our  forerunners,  since  more  composite,  c<; 

Look  not  so  great,  beside  their  simple  wa)',  ' 

To  a  judge  who  only  sees  one  way  at  once,' 
One  mind-point  and  no  other  at  a  time,  — ' 
Compares  the  small  part  of  a  man  of  us' 
With  some  whole  man  of  the  heroic  age 


38 


BROWNING  S    PHILOSOPHY. 


Great  in  his  way  —  not  ours,  nor  meant  for  ours. 

And  ours  is  greater,  had  we  skill  to  know  : 

For  what  we  call  this  life  of  men  on  earth. 

This  sequence  of  the  soul's  achievements  here, 

Being,  as  I  find  much  reason  to  conceive,  75 

Intended  to  be  viewed  eventually 

As  a  great  whole,  not  analyzed  to  parts. 

But  each  part  having  reference  to  all,  — 

How  shall  a  certain  part,  pronounced  complete, 

Endure  effacement  by  another  part  ?  80 

Was  the  thing  done  ?  —  then,  what's  to  do  again  ? 

See,  in  the  chequered  pavement  opposite, 

Suppose  the  a'-'     made  a  perfect  rhomb, 

And  next  a  lozenge,  then  a  trapezoid  — 

He  did  not  overlay  then,  superimpose  85 

The  new  upon  luc  olu  and  blot  it  out. 

But  laid  them  on  a  level  in  his  work, 

Making  at  last  a  picture  ;  there  it  lies. 

So  first  the  perfect  separate  forms  were  made. 

The  portions  of  mankind ;  and  after,  so,  90 

Occurred  the  combination  of  the  same. 

For  where  had  been  a  progress,  otherwise  ? 

Mankind,  made  up  of  all  the  single  men,  —         ' 

In  such  a  synthesis  the  labor  ends. 

Now  mark  me  !  those  divine  men  of  old  time  95 

Have  reached,  thou  sayest  well,  each  at  one  point 

The  outside  verge  that  rounds  our  faculty ; 

And  where  they  reached,  who  can  do  more  than  reach  ? 

It  takes  but  little  water  just  to  touch 

At  some  one  point  the  inside  of  a  sphere,  100 

And,  as  we  turn  the  sphere,  touch  all  the  rest 

In  due  succession :  but  the  finer  air 

Which  not  so  palpably  nor  obviously. 

Though  no  less  universally,  can  touch 

The  whole  circumference  of  that  emptied  sphere,  105 


i 


DROVVNINC'S    ririLOSOl'HV. 

Fills  it  more  fully  than  the  water  did ; 

Holds  thrice  the  weight  of  water  in  itself 

Resolved  into  a  subtler  element. 

And  yet  the  vulgar  call  the  sphere  first  full 

Up  to  the  visible  height  —  and  after,  void  ; 

Not  knowing  air's  more  hidden  properties. ' 

And  thus  our  soul,  misknown,  cries  out  to  Zeus 

To  vindicate  his  purpose  in  our  life  : 

Why  stay  we  on  the  earth  unless  to  grow? 

Long  since,  I  imaged,  wrote  the  fiction  out. 

That  he  or  other  god  descended  here 

And,  once  for  all,  showed  simultaneously 

What,  in  its  nature,  never  can  be  shown 

Piecemeal  or  in  succession ;  — showed,  I  say. 

The  worth  both  absolute  and  relative 

Of  all  his  children  from  the  birth  of  time, 

His  instruments  for  all  appointed  work. 

I  now  go  on  to  image,  —  might  we  hear 

The  judgment  which  should  give  the  due  to  each 

Show  where  the  labor  lay  and  where  the  ease       ' 

And  prove  Zeus'  self,  the  latent  every^vhere  '  ' 

This  is  a  dream  :  -  but  no  dream,  let  us  hope, 

That  years  and  days,  the  summers  and  the  springs, 

Follow  each  other  with  unwaning  powers 

The  grapes  which  dye  thy  wine,  are  richer  far 

Through  culture,  than  the  wild  wealth  of  the  rock  • 

Ihe  suave  plum  than  the  savage-tasted  drupe  •       ' 

The  pastured  honey-bee  drops  choicer  sweet ;' 

The  flowers  turn  double,  and  the  leaves  turn  flowers  • 

That  young  and  tender  crescent-moon,  thy  slave, 

Sleeping  above  her  robe  as  buoyed  by  clouds 

Refines  upon  the  women  of  my  vouth 

What,  and  the  soul  alone  deteriorates  ? 

I  have  not  chanted  verse  like  Homer  no  — 

Nor  swept  string  like  Terpander,  no  1  nor  carved 


39 


no 


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m 


'35 


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140 


4© 


BROWNING  S    PHILOSOPHY. 


And  painted  men  like  Phidias  and  his  friend : 

I  am  not  great  as  they  are,  point  by  point. 

But  I  have  entered  into  sympathy 

With  these  four,  running  these  into  one  soul, 

Who,  separate,  ignored  each  other's  art.  145 

Say,  is  it  nothing  that  I  know  them  all  ? 

The  wild  flower  was  the  larger ;  I  have  dashed 

Rose-blood  upon  its  petals,  pricked  its  cup's 

Honey  with  wine,  and  driven  its  seed  to  fruit, 

And  show  a  better  flower  if  not  so  large  :  150 

I  stand  myself.     Refer  this  to  the  gods 

Whose  gift  alone  it  is  !  which,  shall  I  dare 

(All  pride  apart)  upon  the  absurd  pretext 

That  such  a  gift  by  chance  lay  in  my  hand, 

Discourse  of  lightly  or  depreciate  ?  155 

It  might  have  fallen  to  another's  hand  :  what  then  ? 

I  pass  too  surely :  let  at  least  truth  stay  ! 

It  will  be  noted  that  while  Cleon  is  an  advance  in  complex- 
ity on  his  predecessors,  he  is  in  each  department  less  per- 
fect than  they.     His  progress  in  knowledge  and  sympathy 
has  outstripped  the  capacity  to  realize  his  conceptions. 
We  now  come  to  the  main  subject  of  the  epistle. 

And  next,  of  what  thou  followest  on  to  ask. 
This  being  with  me  as  I  declare,  O  king. 
My  works  in  all  these  varicolored  kinds,  i6o 

So  done  by  me,  accepted  so  by  men  — 
Thou  askest,  if  (my  soul  thus  in  men's  hearts) 
I  must  not  be  accounted  to  attain 
The  very  crown  and  proper  end  of  life  ? 
Inquiring  thence  how,  now  life  closetb  up,  165 

I  face  death  with  success  in  my  right  hand  : 
Whether  I  fear  death  less  than  dost  thyself 
The  fortunate  of  men?    "  For  "  (writest  thou) 


41 


X- 

r- 


browning's  philosophy. 

Thou  leaves^  much  behind,  while  I  leave  nought. 

Thy  life  stays  in  the  poems  meir  shall  sing,  170 

The  pictures  men  shall  study ;  while  my  life, 

Complete  and  whole  now  in  its  power  and  joy. 

Dies  altogether  with  my  brain  and  arm, 

Is  lost  indeed ;  since,  what  survives  myself? 

The  brazen  statue  to  o'erlook  my  grave,  1 75 

"  Set  on  the  promontory  which  I  named. 
"  And  that  —  some  supple  courtier  of  my  heir 
"  Shall  use  its  robed  and  sceptred  arm,  perhaps 
"  To  fix  the  rope  to,  which  best  drags  it  down. 
"  I  go  then  :  triumph  thou,  who  dost  not  go  !  "  180 

Protus,  then,  has  found  that  life  is  vanity.  Has  Cleon's 
experience  been  different.?  The  answer  is  a  full  one. 
Cleon  shows  by  general  considerations  that,  instead  of  a 
man  of  his  r.dvanced  type  finding  life  more  satisfactory 
than  ordinary  men,  life  in  his  case  must  be  a  more  com- 
plete failure.  To  demonstrate  this,  he  first  asserts,  in  the 
following  passage,  that  lower  animals  are  in  their  way  per- 
fect. But  they  lack  self-consciousness.  They  simply 
enjoy ;  they  are  not  aware  of,  they  have  no  power  to  reflect 
on  their  capacities  and  joys.  Here  man  is  superior  to 
them. 


Nay,  thou  art  worthy  of  hearing  my  whole  mind. 
Is  this  apparent,  when  thou  turn'st  to  muse 
Upon  the  scheme  of  earth  and  man  in  chief, 
That  admiration  grows  as  knowledge  grows  ? 
That  imperfection  means  perfection  hid, 

Reserved  in  part,  to  grace  the  after-time? 

If,  in  the  morning  of  philosophy, 

Ere  aught  had  been  recorded,  nay  perceived, 

Thou,  with  the  light  now  in  thee,  c  oiildst  have  looked 

On  all  earth's  tenantry,  from  worm  to  bird, 


lit.;  -  , 


190 


43 


BROWNING  S    PHILOSOPHY. 


Ere  man,  her  last,  appeared  upon  the  stage  — 

Thou  wouldst  have  seen  them  perfect,  and  deduced 

The  perfectness  of  others  yet  unseen. 

Conceding  which,  —  had  Zeus  then  questioned  thee 

"  Shall  I  go  on  a  step,  improve  on  this,  195 

"  Do  more  for  visible  creatures  than  is  done  ?  " 

Thou  wouldst  have  answered,  "  Ay,  by  making  each 

"  Grow  conscious  in  himself — by  that  alone. 

"  All's  perfect  else  :  the  shell  sucks  fast  the  rock, 

"  The  fish  strikes  through  the  sea,  the  snake  both  swims    200 

"  And  slides,  forth  range  the  beasts,  the  birds  take  flight, 

"  Till  life's  mechanics  can  no  further  go  — 

"  And  all  this  joy  in  natural  life,  is  put, 

"  Like  fire  from  off  thy  finger  into  each, 

"  So  exquisitely  perfect  is  the  same.  305 

"  But  'tis  pure  fire,  and  they  mere  matter  are  : 

"  It  has  them,  not  they  it ;  and  so  I  choose 

"  For  man,  thy  last  premeditated  work 

"  (If  I  might  add  a  glory  to  the  scheme), 

"  That  a  third  thing  should  stand  apart  from  both,  210 

"  A  quality  arise  within  his  soul, 

"  Which  intro- active,  made  to  supervise 

"  And  feel  the  force  it  has,  may  view  itself, 

*'  And  so  be  happy."    Man  might  live  at  first 

The  animal  life  :  but  is  there  nothing  more  ?  ti| 

In  due  time,  let  him  critically  learn 

How  he  lives ;  and,  the  more  he  gets  to  know 

Of  his  own  life's  adaptabilities, 

The  more  joy-giving  will  his  life  become. 

Thus  man  who  hath  this  quality,  is  best.  330 


But  this  advance  in  man  over  the  beast  is  a  source  of  im- 
perfection and  pain  ;  for  through  it  we  become  conscious 
of  joys  outside  of  us,  and  of  desires  in  the  soul  for  making 
these  joys  ours,  while  our  capacity  for  doing  so  is  in  no  way 


aas 


230 


browning's  philosophy.  43 

increased.   There  is  disproportion  between  the  desires  and 
needs  of  the  soul,  and  our  means  of  fulfilling  them. 

But  thou,  king,  hadst  more  reasonably  said  :  • 

"  Let  progress  end  at  once,  —  man  make  no  step 
"  Beyond  the  natural  man,  the  better  beast, 
"  Using  his  senses,  not  the  sense  of  sense."  . 

In  man  there's  failure,  only  sinc;p  he  left 
The  lower  and  inconscious  forms  of  life. 
We  called  it  an  advance,  the  rendering  plain 
Man's  spirit  might  grow  conscious  of  man's  life. 
And,  by  new  lore  so  added  to  the  old, 
Take  each  step  higher  over  the  brute's  head. 
This  grew  the  only  life,  the  pleasure-house, 
Watch-tower  and  treasure-fortress  of  the  soul. 
Which  whole  surrounding  flats  of  natural  life 
Seemed  only  fit  to  yield  subsistence  to ; 
A  tower  that  crowns  a  country.    Bufalas, 
The  soul  now  climbs  it  just  to  perish  there  ! 
For  thence  we  have  discovered  ('tis  no  dream-- 
We  know  this,  which  we  had  not  else  perceived) 
That  there's  a  world  of  capability 

For  joy,  spread  round  about  us,  meant  for  us. 
Inviting  us;  and  still  the  soul  craves  all. 
And  still  the  flesh  replies,  "Take  no  jot  more 
*|  Than  ere  thou  clombst  the  tower  to  look  abroad  ! 
"  Nay,  so  much  less  as  that  fatigue  has  brought 
«  Deduction  to  it."    We  struggle,  fain  to  enlarge 
Our  bounded  physical  recipiency, 
Increase  our  power,  supply  fresh  oU  to  life, 
Repair  the  waste  of  age  and  sickness :  no,  , 
It  skills  not !  life's  inadequate  to  joy. 
As  the  soul  sees  joy,  tempting  life  to  take. 
They  praise  a  fountain  in  my  garden  here 
Wherein  a  Naiad  sends  the  water-bow 


»35 


340 


a45 


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1 


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4 


250 


44 


UKOWNINO  S    PHILOSOPHY. 


Thin  from  her  tube  ;  she  smiles  to  see  it  rise. 

What  if  I  told  her,  it  is  just  a  thread 

From  that  great  river  which  the  hills  shut  up,  255 

And  mock  her  with  my  leave  to  take  the  same  ? 

The  artificer  has  given  her  one  small  tube 

Past  power  to  widen  or  exchange  —  what  boots 

To  know  she  might  spout  oceans  if  she  could  ? 

She  caimot  lift  beyond  her  first  thin  thread  :  260 

And  so  a  man  can  use  but  a  man's  joy 

While  he  sees  God's.     Is  it  for  Zeus  to  boast, 

"  See  man,  how  happy  I  live,  and  despair  — 

"  That  I  may  be  still  happier —  for  thy  use  ! " 

If  this  were  so,  we  could  not  thank  our  lord,  265 

As  hearts  beat  on  to  doing :  'tis  not  so  — 

Malice  it  is  not.     Is  it  carelessness? 

Still,  no.    If  care  —  where  is  the  sign  ?  I  ask, 

And  get  no  answer,  and  agree  in  sum, 

O  king,  with  thy  profound  discouragement,  370 

Who  seest  the  wider  but  to  sigh  the  more. 

Most  progress  is  most  failure :  thou  sayest  well. 

So  we  see  the  advance  of  man  over  the  beasts  is  of  the  same 
character  as  the  advance  of  Cleon  over  his  predecessors. 
There  is  in  both  cases  an  increased  knowledge  of  ourselves 
and  our  capacities.  There  is  an  increase  in  desires  and 
capacities ;  but  not  a  proportional  increase  in  our  means  of 
gratifying  the  first,  and  of  giving  play  to  the  second.  Beasts 
are  more  perfect  in  their  narrow  sphere  than  man ;  Homer 
and  Terpander,  than  Cleon.  Progress,  then,  though  the 
law  of  the  world  and  the  instinctive  need  of  our  nature, 
involves  more  thorough  failure. 

Neither  does  the  power  of  imagination  free  us  from  our 
limitations,  and  enable  us  to  partake  of  joys  we  cannot 
grasp  in  reality,  as  even  Cleon  with  his  creative  imagina- 
tion acknowledges ;  — 


I 


IS 
n- 


urowning's  F'fm.osoi'iiv. 

'i'hc  last  point  now  :  —  thou  dost  except  a  case  — 
Holding  joy  not  impossible  to  one' 
With  artist-gifts  —  to  such  a  man  as  I 
Who  leave  behind  me  living  works  indeed  ; 
For,  such  a  poem,  such  a  painting  lives. 
What?  dost  thou  verily  trip  upon  a  word, 
Confound  the  accurate  view  of  what  joy  is 
(Caught  somewhat  clearer  by  my  eyes  than  thine) 
With  feeling  joy?  confound  the  knowing  how 
And  showing  how  to  live  (my  faculty) 
With  actually  living?  —  Otherwise 
Where  is  the  artist's  vantage  o'er  the  king  ? 
Because  in  my  great  epos  I  display 
How  divers  men  young,  strong,  fair,  wise  can  act  — 
Is  this  as  though  I  acted?  if  I  paint. 

Carve  the  young  Phcjebus,  am  I  therefore  young  ? 

Methinks  I'm  older  that  I  bowed  myself 

The  many  years  of  pain  that  taught  me  art ! 

Indeed,  to  know  is  something,  and  to  prove 

How  all  this  beauty  might  be  enjoyed,  is  more  : 

But,  knowing  nought,  to  enjoy  is  something  too. 

Yon  rower,  with  the  moulded  muscles  there, 

Lowering  the  sail,  is  nearer  it  than  I. 

I  can  write  love-odes  :  thy  fair  slave's  an  ode. 

I  get  to  sing  of  love,  when  grown  too  gray 

For  being  beloved  :  she  turns  to  that  young  man. 

The  muscles  all  a-ripple  on  his  back. 

I  know  the  joy  of  kingship  :  well,  thou  art  king  ! 


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290 


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300 


Nor  does  Cleon  find  any  consolation  in  the  species  of  im- 
mortality to  which  the  modern  Positivist  looks  forward. 

"  But,"  sayest  thou  —  (and  I  marvel,  I  repeat, 
To  find  thee  tripping  on  a  mere  word)  "  what 
"  Thou  writest,  paintest,  stays ;  that  does  not  die  ! 


m 


46 


imoWNING  S    PHILOSOPHY. 


m 


3to 


315 


"  Sappho  survives,  because  we  sing  her  songs, 
"  And  .'Kschylus,  because  we  read  his  plays  !  " 
Why,  if  they  hve  still,  let  them  come  and  take 
Thy  slave  in  my  despite,  drink  from  thy  cup, 
Speak  in  my  place.     Thou  diest  while  I  survive  ? 
Say  rather  that  my  fate  is  deadlier  still, 
In  this,  that  every  day  my  sense  of  joy 
Grows  more  acute,  my  soul  (intensified 
By  power  and  insight)  more  enlarged,  more  keen ; 
While  every  day  my  hair  falls  more  and  more, 
My  hand  shakes,  and  the  heavy  years  increase  — 
The  horror  quickening  still  from  year  to  year, 
The  consummation  coming  past  escape, 
When  I  shall  know  most,  and  yet  least  enjoy  — 
When  all  my  works  wherein  I  prove  my  worth, 
Being  present  still  to  mock  me  in  men's  mouths. 
Alive  still,  in  the  praise  of  such  as  thou, 
I,  I  the  feeling,  thinking,  acting  man, 
The  man  who  loved  his  life  so  over-much. 
Sleep  in  my  urn. 


From  such  a  conclusion  the  human,  heart  instinctively 
revolts;  and  in  the  premonition  and  longing  there  im- 
planted. Browning  sees  an  indication  of  the  true  solution 
of  the  difficulty,  —  personal  immortality. 


320 


It  is  so  horrible, 
I  dare  at  times  imagine  to  my  need 
Soini'  future  state  revealed  to  us  by  Zeus, 
Unlimite'  in  capability 
For  joy,  as  this  is  in  desire  for  joy, 
-    To  seek  which,  the  joy-hunger  forces  us  : 
That,  stupg  by  straitness  of  our  life,  made  strait 
On  purpose  to  make  prized  the  life  at  large  — 
Freeu  by  the  throbbing  impulse  we  call  death. 


325 


330 


BROWNING  S    PHILOSOPHY, 


m 


We  burst  there  as  the  worm  into  the  fly, 
Who,  while  a  worm  still,  wants  ais  wings. 
Zeus  has  not  yet  revealed  it ;  and  alas, 
He  must  have  done  so,  were  it  possible  ! 


But  no ! 


335 


Note,  in  connection  with  these  last  two  lines,  the  fine  and 
tragic  irony  which  Browning  infuses  into  the  following 
paragraph.  That  which  might  have  given  shape  and  assur- 
ance to  the  dim  longings  of  Cleon's  heart,  Cleon,  who  had 
worn  life  out  in  mastering  all  knowledge,  and  who  still 
found  the  essential  thing  wanting,  passes  by,  with  neglect 
and  contempt. 

Live  long  and  happy,  and  in  that  thought  die, 
Glad  for  what  was  !     Farewell.     And  for  the  rest, 
I  cannot  tell  thy  messenger  aright 
Where  to  deliver  what  he  bears  of  thine 
To  one  called  Paulus ;  we  have  heard  his  fame  340 

Indeed,  if  Christus  be  not  one  with  him  — 
I  know  not,  nor  am  troubled  much  to  know. 
Thou  canst  not  think  a  mere  barbarian  Jew 
As  Paulus  proves  to  be,  one  circumcised, 
Hath  access  to  a  secret  shut  from  us  ? 
Thou  wrongest  our  philosophy,  O  king, 
In  stooping  to  inquire  of  such  an  one. 
As  if  his  answer  could  impose  at  all ! 
He  writeth,  doth  he  ?  well,  and  he  may  write. 
Oh,  the  Jew  findeth  scholars  !  certain  slaves  350 

Who  touched  on  this  same  isle,  preached  him  and  Christ ; 
And  (as  I  gathered  from  a  bystander) 
Their  doctrine  could  be  held  by  no  sane  man. 

Browning  thus  dramatically  and  indirectly,  as  is  his  wont, 
indicates  what  he  deems  the  true  solution  of  the  difficulty.' 
A  mind  of  his  type  finds  no  refuge   from   th 


crushing 


48 


BROWNING  S    PHILOSOPHY. 


despondency  begotten  at  the  view  of  the  foiled,  imperfect 
life  of  the  soul,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the  Positivist,  who  is , 
content  to  accept  the  imperfection  and  sacrifice  of  the  in- 
dividual life  as  a  factor  in  working  out  the  ultimate  perfec- 
tion of  the  race.  Still  less  disposed  is  he  to  rest  satisfied 
with  the  Materialist's  view,  who  considers  it  natural  and 
fitting  that  so  insignificant  a  part  of  the  universe  as  man 
should,  having  contributed  his  small  quota  to  the  develop 
ment  of  the  whole,  perish  forever.  For  Browning,  with  h. 
estimate  of  the  worth  of  spiritual  life  and  of  the  individual 
soul,  the  natural  and  satisfying  solution  is  found  in  a  per- 
sonal immortality.  This  idea  of  immortality  is  a  funda- 
mental one  with  him,  and  he  returns  to  it  again  and 
again.  The  light  that  this  idea  casts  on  the  problems  of 
life,  and  the  vigor  and  hopefulness  it  imparts,  is  presented 
in  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  which  should  be  read  in  connection 
with  Clean,  as  afifording  the  complementary  picture  to  it. 

With  immortality  in  view,  the  meaning  and  use  of  life 
become  at  once  apparent :  — 

Life  is  probation,  and  the  earth  no  goal, 
But  starting  point  of  man. 

Browning  counts  — 

life  just  the  stuff 

To  try  the  soul's  strength  on,  educe  the  man. 

Development,  that  pervading  thought  of  our  century,  enters 
here  into  Browning's  system ;  but,  characteristically  enough, 
it  is  not  with  him  the  development  of  the  race  through  a 
series  of  individuals,  but  of  the  individual  through  a  series 
of  existences.  The  soul  he  conceives  as  passing  through 
sphere  after  sphere,  of  which  the  present  life  forms  one,  — 

Spiral  on  spiral,  gyres  of  life  and  light 
More  and  more  gorgeous. 


BROWNING  S   PHILOSOPHY. 

In  each,  it  is  hampered  by  the  conditions  which  pertain  to 
that  particular  sphere ;  in  this  life,  for  example,  by  those 
we  call  bodily  or  material.  By  struggle  with  these,  the 
soul  is  rendered  more  perfect,  and,  when  these  fall  away, 
finds  itself  fitted  for  the  higher  phase  of  existence  into 
which  it  passes.  That  imperfection,  then,  of  which  Clcon 
speaks,  —  that  disproportion  between  our  aspirations,  and 
our  ability  to  realize  them,  —  belongs  to  the  very  essence 
of  man,  and  is  a  proof  of  his  higher  destiny.  In  that  very 
imperfection  lies  the  possibility  of  progress,  and  progress 
consists  in  a  nearer  and  nearer  approximation  to  the  uncon- 
ditional and  absolute,  —  that  is,  to  God. 

Man  is  not  God  but  hath  God's  end  to  serve, 

A  master  to  obey,  a  course  to  take. 

Somewhat  to  cast  off,  somewhat  to  become. 

Grant  this,  then  man  must  pass  from  old  to  new, 

From  vain  to  real,  from  mistake  to  fact. 

From  what  once  seemed  good,  to  what  now  proves  best. 

How  could  man  have  progression  otherwise  ? 


J 


*  *  By  such  confession  straight  he  falls 

Into  man's  place,  a  thing  nor  God  nor  beast. 

Made  to  know  that  he  can  know  and  not  more  : 

Lower  than  God  who  knows  all  and  can  all, 

Higher  than  beasts  which  know  and  can  so  far 

As  each  beast's  limit,  perfect  to  an  end. 

Nor  conscious  that  they  know,  nor  craving  more ; 

While  man  knows  partly  but  conceives  beside. 

Creeps  ever  on  from  fancies  to  the  fact. 

And  in  this  striving,  this  converting  air 

Into  a  solid  he  may  grasp  and  use, 

Finds  progress,  man's  destructive  mark  alone. 

Not  God's,  and  not  the  beasts' :  God  is,  they  are, 


50 


BROWNING  S    PHILOSOPHY. 


-K 


I. 


Man  partly  is  and  wholly  hopes  to  be. 

Such  progress  could  no  more  attend  his  soul 

Were  all  its  struggles  after  found  at  first 

And  guesses  changed  to  knowledge  absolute, 

Than  motion  wait  his  body,  were  all  else 

Tha.i  .t  the  solid  earth  on  every  side. 

Where  now  through  space  he  moves  from  rest  to  rest. 

— (A  Death  in  the  Desert,  pp.  142-4.) 

Such  being  the  end  of  man,  the  direst  sin  he  can  com- 
mit against  his  own  nature,  and  the  Divine  purpose,  is  to 
fall  into  supine  and  sluggish  indifference ;  to  dull  his  spirit- 
ual aspirations,  to  find  a  plenitude  of  satisfaction  in  the 
joys  of  the  present  life.  On  the  other  hand,  everything  is 
supremely  valuable  which  tends  to  rouse  him  from  this 
apathy,  to  make  him  feel  the  insufficiency  of  this  life,  and 
the  need  of  something  beyond. 

This  is  the  source  of  Browning's  peculiar  way  of  regard- 
ing passion,  which  forms  so  striking,  and  to  many  so 
repugnant,  an  element  in  his  poetry.  £a§sion,  with  its 
illimitable  and  insatiable  cravings,  is  for  him  at  once  a 
pledge  of  the  future  possibilities  of  the  soul,  and  the^ur 
which  urges  it  on  to  preparation  for  them.  Xhe.p.assionate 
soul  seizes  on  one  after  another  of  the  unsatisfying  joys  of 
the  world,  till  it  rises  to  the  conception  and  desire  of  the 
absolute  and  divine. 


A  searching  and  impetuous  soul 
♦•»*»« 

Might  seek  somewhere  in  this  blank  life  of  ours 
For  fit  delights  to  stay  its  longings  vast ; 
And  grappling  nature,  so  prevail  on  her 
To  fill  the  creature  full  she  dared  to  frame 
Hungry  for  joy ;  and,  bravely  tyrannous 


I 


browning's  philosophv, 


5« 


Grow  in  demand,  still  craving  more  and  more, 

And  make  each  joy  conceded  prove  a  pledge 

Of  other  joy  to  follow  —  bating  nought 

Of  its  desires,  still  seizing  fresh  pretence 

To  turn  the  knowledge  and  the  rapture  wrung 

As  an  extreme,  last  boon,  from  Destiny, 

Into  occasion  for  new  covetings, 

New  strifes,  new  triumphs.  —{Paracelsus,  V.) 

The  proper  attitude  of  man  is  one  of  eager,  strenuous 
exertion.  The  hero  in  Browning's  eyes  is  he  whose  every 
muscle  is  tense  in  the  struggle  for  the  attainment  of  some 
object  beyond  him.     That  he  should  grasp  it,  is  not  to  be 


expected.      But  what  matter.'' 
Pacchiaiotto,  — 


In  tbe  halting  verses  of 


'Tis  work  for  work's  sake  that  he's  need  in" : 
Let  him  work  on  and  on  as  if  speeding 
Work's  end,  but  not  dream  of  succeeding  ! 
Becaase  if  success  were  intended. 
Why,  heaven  would  begin  ere  earth  ended. 

Here  is  another  idea  which  under  various  forms  pervades 
the  thought  of  the  day,  —  the  idea  of  culture,  that  the  per- 
fection of  man  is  higher  than  any  external  result.    Man  is  — 

Formed  to  rise,  reach  at,  if  not  grasp  and  gain 
The  good  beyond  him,  —  which  attempt  is  growth. 

^i?^"^^3^^  ^"^^  conceptions,  Browning  is  naturally 
more  lenient  to  sins  of  passion,  which,  as  most  fataltojhe 
social  fabric,  society  sternly  condemns,  than  to  sins  of 
coldness,  of  selfish  prudence,  which  society  overlooks. 
Browning  deems  the  latter  the  more  heinous,  inasmuch  as 


m 

■5! 


n 


t 


fli 


5-' 


BROWNING  S    PHILOSOPHY. 


they  are  more  deadly  in  their  effects  on  the  individual 
soul.  Hence  it  comes  that,  to  use  the  words  of  Mr.  VV.  L. 
Courtenay,  "With  him,  as  with  Euripides,  the  humanity 
that  he  paints  is  not  the  dignified,  selfish  man  of  Tennyson 
and  Sophocles,  with  views  on  '  the  decorous '  and  '  the  befit- 
ting,* and  a  conventional  regard  for  respectable  deportment, 
whether  towards  himself  or  towards  the  gods  ;  but  the 
wilder,  less  commonplace,  higher  developed  human  being, 
who  hates  with  a  will  and  loves  with  a  will,  regardless  of 
consequences,  who  cannot  deceive  himself,  and  despises 
external  morality,  —  a  humanity  which  dares  and  sins  and 
suffers,  and  makes  mock,  if  need  be,  of  gods  and  heaven." 
And  again,  "  Not  for  Browning  the  beauty  of  repose ; 
the  still,  quiet  lights  of  meditation,  removed  from  the 
slough  and  welter  of  actual  struggle,  make  no  appeal  to 
him ;  the  apathetic  calm  of  the  norrpal  human  being,  exer- 
cised on  daily,  uninteresting  tasks,  is  to  him  well-nigh 
incomprehensible."  * 

If  we  turn  to  the  poem  called  The  Statue  and  the  Bust^ 
we  find  an  illustration  of  Browning's  estimate  of  the  worth 
of  effort  and  action,  as  compared  with  sluggishness  and 
feebleness  of  purpose.  There  the  story  is  told  of  a  bride 
in  Florence,  who,  on  the  day  she  was  to  wed  a  man  whom 
she  did  not  love,  and  who  was  in  every  way  unsuited  to  her, 
saw  from  her  window  the  Duke  as  he  passed.  He,  too, 
caught  sight  of  her,  and  a  glance  was  sufficient  to  kindle 
and  reveal  mutual  love.  Each  resolves  to  gratify  the  un- 
lawful passion,  but  each  procrastinates,  allowing  the  little- 
nesses of  the  passing  day  to  delay  the  momentous  step. 
And  so  days  pass  into  months,  and  months  into  years,  and 
the  desire  and  intention  are  still  cherished ;  until  suddenly 
they  awake  to  the  fact  that  youth  and  beauty  have  faded, 

*  Robert  Browning  as  a  Writer  of  Plays,  Fortnightly  Review,  1883. 


browning's  philosophy. 


53 


and  the  time  for  passion  has  forever  passed.     Over  this 
story  the  poet  moraUzes  :  — 

So  !    While  these  wait  the  trump  of  doom, 
How  do  their  spirits  pass,  I  wonder. 
Nights  and  days  in  the  narrow  room  ? 

Still,  I  suppose,  they  sit  and  ponder 
What  a  gift  life  was,  ages  ago, 
Six  steps  out  of  the  chapel  yonder. 

Only  they  see  not  God,  I  know. 

Nor  all  that  chivalry  of  his, 

The  soldier  saints,  who,  row  on  row,. 


•a 
3 


Burn  upward  each  to  his  point  of  bliss  — 

Since,  the  end  of  life  being  manifest, 

He  had  burned  his  way  thro'  the  world  to  this. 

I  hear  you  reproach,  "  But  delay  was  best. 

For  their  end  was  a  crime."  —  Oh,  a  crime  will  do 

As  well,  I  reply,  to  serve  for  a  test, 

As  a  virtue  golden  through  and  through. 

Sufficient  to  vindicate  itself 

And  prove  it's  worth  at  a  moment's  view  ! 

Must  a  game  be  played  for  the  sake  of  pelf? 
Where  a  button  goes,  'twere  an  epigram 
To  offer  the  stamp  of  the  very  Guelph. 

The  true  has  no  value  beyond  the  sham  : 

As  well  the  counter  as  coin,  1  submit. 

When  your  table's  a  hat,  and  your  prize  a  dram. 


4. 


54  DROWNING  S   PHILOSOPHY. 

Stake  your  counter  as  boldly  every  whit, 

Venture  as  warily,  use  the  same  skill, 

Do  your  best,  whether  winning  or  losing  it. 

If  you  choose  to  play  !  —  is  my  principle. 
Let  a  man  contend  to  the  uttermost 
For  his  life's  set  prize,  be  it  what  it  will ! 

The  counter,  our  lovers  staked,  was  lost 

As  surely  as  if  it  were  lawful  coin  : 

And  the  sin  I  impute  to  each  frustrate  ghost 

Is  —  the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin, 
Though  the  end  in  sight  was  a  vice,  I  say. 
.    You  of  the  virtue  (we  issue  join) 
How  strive  you  ?    De  te^fabula  ! 

— {^Dramatic  Romances ,  p.  i88.) 

Not  that  Browning  would  condone  the  purposed  sin ;  but, 
as  far  as  the  inner  life  of  the  individual  is  concerned,  the 
sin  has  already  been  committed ;  whereas  the  weakness 
in  the  face  of  petty  difficulties,  the  inability  to  struggle 
energetically  towards  the  aim,  is  a  sufficient  indication  of 
the  lack  of  that  strenuous  ardor  which,  in  the  poet's  opin- 
ion, is  the  fundamental  requisite  in  developing  man  accord- 
ing to  the  divine  plan. 

i2fj5iU  the  passions,  none  so  reaches  out  towardsi-the 
infinite  as  love.  For  Browning,  then,  as  well  as  Plato,  love 
both  symbolizes  and  arouses  that  thirst  for  the  infinite 
which  is  the  primary  need  of  humanity.  There  is  some- 
thing mystic  and  transcendental  in  the  power  of  love.  The 
'perfection  of  body  and  soul  with  which  the  lover's  imagi- 
nation endows  the  loved  one,  is  represented  in  Fifine,  not 
as  an  unreal  halo,  but  as  the  result  of  the  deeper  insight 
which  love  bestows,  —  an  insight  which  penetrates  the  veil 
of  time  and  matter,  and  sees  the  original  type  which  the 


HKOWNINd  S    IMIILOSOPIIV. 


55 


sold  (limly. shadows  forth  amidst  the  imperfections  of  the 
present  order  of  thin^i;s.  litre,  as  elsewhere,  the  attain- 
ment of  the  aim  —  the  successful  issue  of  the  passion  —  is 
an  insignificant  matter  in  comparison  with  the  gain  which 
the  s'piritual  discipline  bf  love  confers  upon  the  soul.  So 
Valence,  in  Colombcs  Birthday,  believing  that  his  lady  has 
preferred  another,  does  not  on  that  account  grieve  that  his 
heart  is  irretrievably  hers.  Nay,  he  rejoices  in  the  hope- 
less passion,  finds  in  the  complete  self-abnegation  which  it 
demands,  an  ennobling  and  invigorating  spiritual  force. 

Had  I  seen  such  an  one, 
As  I  loved  her  —  weighing  thoroughly  that  word  — 
So  should  my  task  be  to  evolve  her  love  : 
If  for  myself !  —  if  for  another  —  well ! 

Beithold.     Heroic  truly  !     And  your  sole  rcvart',  — 
The  secret  pride  in  yielding  up  love's  light. 

Valence.     Who  thought  upon  reward?    And  yet  how  much 
Comes  after  —  oh,  what  amplest  recompense  I 
Is  the  knowledge  of  her,  nought?  the  memory,  nought? 
—  Lady,  should  such  an  one  have  looked  on  you, 
Ne'er  wrong  yourself  so  far  as  quote  the  world. 
And  say,  love  can  go  unrecjuited  here  !  ' 

You  will  have  blessed  him  to  his  whole  life's  end  — 
Low  passions  hindered,  baser  cares  kei)t  back, 
All  goodness  cherished  where  you  dwelt  —  and  dwell. 
What  would  he  have?     He  holds  you  — yoi;,  botl.  for.i. 
And  mind,  in  his,  —  where  seif-love  makes  such  room 
For  love  of  you,  he  would  not  serve  you  now 
The  vulgar  way,  —  repulse  your  enemies, 
Win  you  new  realms,  or  best,  to  save  the  old 
Die  blissfully  —  rhat's  past  so  long  ago  ! 
He  wishes  you  no  need,  tho.ight,  care  of  him  — 
Your  good,  by  any  means,  himself  unseen. 
Away,  forgotten  !  —{Clombcs  Hirlhdn,  p    lO;  ) 


♦•Hi 


56 


BROWNING  S   PHILOSOPHY. 


The  same  idea  of  the  worth  of  love  in  itself,  is  embodied 
in  Evelyn  Hope  and  Cristina.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
most  deadly  sin  that  can  be  committed  in  this  sphere,  is 
the  stifling  of  passion  from  low  motives  of  worldly  pru- 
dence. \xi  Dis  Aliter  Visum,  Youth  and  Art,  ^ic,  the  poet 
teaches  that  the  man  or  woman  who  does  so,  inflicts  an 
irreparable  blow  on  spiritual  development. 

The  mention  of  Plato  reminds  us  of  the  resemblance 
between  his  point  of  view  and  Browning's.  Both  are 
idealists  and  transcendentalists ;  and  Browning's  earliest 
poem,  Pauline,  indicates  the  attraction  which  the  works 
of  the  great  Athenian  had  for  him.  But  the  Platonism 
of  Browning  is  most  apparent  in  his  view  of  this  world 
as  an  imperfect  shadow  of  an  absolute  universe  beyond. 
The  whole  philosophy  of  Browning  is  permeated  by  the 
conception  of  the  relative  and  the  absolute.  In  this  world 
th6re  is  only  relative  beauty,  relative  truth,  relative  good. 
To  the  soul,  however,  belongs  an  innate  thirst  for  the  abso- 
lute ;  and  these  temporal  representatives  of  it  have  worth 
only  in  so  far  as  they  help  the  soul  on  towards  the  concep- 
tion of  what  is  absolutely  beautiful,  true,  and  good.  So,  for 
example,  the  soul  contemplating  the  different  forms  of  the 
lovely  and  beautiful  which  our  earth  affords,  may  rise  by  de- 
grees to  the  conception  of  the  perfection  and  love  of  God. 

Fresh  births  of  beauty  wake 
Fresh  homage,  every  grade  of  love  is  past, 
With  every  mode  of  loveliness ;  then  cast 
Inferior  idols  off  their  borrowed  crown 
Before  a  corning  glory.    Up  and  dgwn 
Runs  arrowy  fire,  while  earthly  forms  combine 
To  throb  the  secret  forth ;  a  touch  divine  — 
And  the  scaled  eyeball  owns  the  mystic  rod ; 
Visibly  through  the  garden  walketh  God. 

—  {SordeUo,  p.  70.) 


DROWNING  S    PHILOSOPHY. 


57 


So,  likewise,  to  the  soul  belongs  the  heritage  of  truth. 
The  soul,  in  virtue  of  its  essence,  possesses  all  truth,  but, 
as  Plato  explains  in  the  Etitliy demits ,  only  potentially.  It 
is  only  for  exceptional  individuals,  and  on  exceptional 
occasions,  that  truth  is  set  free,  and  from  being  a  poten- 
tial, becomes  an  actual  possession. 

Truth  is  within  ourselves ;  it  takes  no  rise 

From  outward  things,  whatever  you  may  believe  ; 

There  is  an  inmost  centre  in  us  all, 

When  truth  abides  in  fulness ;  and  around 

Wall  upon  wall,  the  gross  flesh  hems  it  in, 

This  perfect,  clear  perception  —  which  is  truth  : 

A  baffling  and  perverting  carnal  mesh 

Blinds  it,  and  makes  all  error :  and,  "  to  know  " 

Rather  consists  in  opening  out  a  way 

Whence  the  imprisoned  splendor  may  escape. 

Than  in  eflecting  entry  for  a  light 

Supposed  to  be  without.    Watch  narrowly 

The  demonstration  of  a  truth,  its  birth, 

And  you  trace  back  the  effluence  to  its  spring 

And  source  within  us,  where  broods  radiance  vast, 

To  be  elicited  ray  by  ray,  as  chance 

Shall  favor.  —{Pantceisus,  I.) 

Hence  it  is  that  Browning  has  much  greater  confidence  in 
those  truths  which  he  considers  to  be  intuitive,  such  as  the 
conviction  of  immortality  (cf.  La  Saisiaz),  than  in  those 
which  are  based  on  logical  processes. 

The  same  theory  accounts  for  the  existence  of  evil.  Evil 
is  merely  the  imperfection  which  clings  to  the  passing 
world  of  simulacra,  —  the  obstacle  by  conflict  with  which 
the  soul  attains  its  requisite  development.  It  is  the  Divine 
purpose  that  man  should  pursue  these  shadows  as  strenu- 


58 


HKOWNIN(;  S    IMIILOSOI'IIY. 


ously  as  if  they  were  real.  Rut  evil  being  an  essential 
element  in  the  present  v/orld,  he  does  not  thereby  attain 
the  ostensible  end  of  aTnihi!^*^ijig  it,  but  the  greater  end 
of  developing  himself.  There  is  danger  to  the  individual 
in  perception  of  this  great  truth  of  the  relative  and  neces- 
sary character  of  evil,  unless  he  perceives  also  the  comple- 
mentary truth  of  the  necessity  of  struggle  against  it.  The 
two  poems  entitled  Pisgah-Sights  present  these  two  sides. 
The  relativity  of  evil  is  especially  apparent  at  the  approach 
of  death,  when  bodily  limitations  are  passing  from  the 
soul,  and  the  limitations  of  the  new  sphere  have  not  yet 
enclosed  it.  On  the  eve  of  death  the  speaker  in  the 
Pisgak- Sights,  I.,  as  Sordello  under  similar  circumstances, 
sees  that  all  works  together  for  good. 

1. 
Over  the  ball  of  it, 

Peering  and  prying, 
How  I  see  all  of  it, 

Life  there,  outlying ! 
Roughness  and  smoothness. 

Shine  and  defilement, 
Grace  and  uncouthness ; 

One  reconcilement. 


11. 
Orbed  as  appointed, 

Sister  with  brother 
Joins,  ne'er  disjointed 

One  from  the  other. 
All's  lend-and-borrow ; 

Good,  see,  wants  evil, 
Joy  demands  sorrow. 

Angel  weds  devil ! 


browning's  philosophy. 


59 


III. 

"  Which  things  must  —  why  be  ?  " 

Vain  our  endeavor ! 
So  shall  things  aye  be 

As  they  were  ever. 
"  Such  things  should  so  be  1 " 

Sage  our  desistence  ! ' 
Rough-smooth  let  globe  be, 

Mixed  —  man's  existence  ! 

— {Pacchiarotto  and  Other  Poems.) 


*  The  sentiment  in  this  line  is  dramatic  only  —  not  Browning's. 


6o 


(.lIKISilAMTV    IN    HROWNINU 


CH A ITKR    III. 


CHRIS  riANITY   AS    PRESENTED    IN    BROWNING'S 

WORKS. 

Although  Hiowninj;  is,  as  every  one  must  be,  the  child 
of  his  age,  he  is,  notwithstanding,  as  we  have  seen  in  the 
last  ehapter,  in  many  points  out  of  sympathy  with,  or  in 
opposition  to,  its  dominant  tendencies.     Like  Carlyle,  he  is 
an  idealist  and  tranr.cendentalist  in  the  midst  of  a  material- 
istic and  rationalistic  generation.     It  will  further  be  noted 
that  he  approximates  to  characteristically  Christian  ways  of 
thinking  in  those  particulars  in  which  he  departs  from  the 
standpoint  of  his  age;  — in  his  insistence  upon  a  personal 
God,  manifesting  himself  in  personal  qualities,  upon  a  God 
who  is  in  immediate  contact  with  us,  rather  than  upon  one 
acting  merely  through  natural  law;   in  the  ;  rime  impor- 
tance which  he  assigns  to  the  individual  soui ;  in  his  pre- 
dominant interest  in  its  destiny ;  in  his  consequent  dwelling 
upon,  and  confidence  in,  a  future  life  ;  in  his  presentation 
of  this  life  as  a  scene  of  probation  and  preparation  for  a 
higher  and  better  one  ;    in  his  neglect  of   the   theme  of 
man's  material  progress;  in  his  comparative  lack  of  interest 
in  the  future  condition  of  the  race  in  this  world  ;  in  short, 
in  the  overwhelming  interest  and  importance  which   the 
spiritual  and  inner  life  has  above  the  material  and  outer. 
Moreover,  there    is,  in  his  way  of   estimating    individual 
character,  a  close  resemblance  to  the  Christian   method. 
As  we  saw,  he  does  not  select  for  approval  the  man  who  is 
simply  blameless  in  his  social  relations,  who  leads  a  decent 


CHklSTIANITV    IN    UROWNING. 


&t 


life,  and  does  not  come  into  conflict  vvitii  law,  or  the  con- 
ventions of  society.     There  is  something  more  essential 
than  this  — an  eager,  strenuous,  ail-sulxluing  enthusiasm 
for  something  higher;  an  emotional  condition  which  noth- 
ing finite  can  ever  satisfy,  and  which  must  therefore  lead 
ultimately   to   the   absolute   and   infinite.     So   Jesus  had 
applied  to  men  a  test  which  selected  as  His  followers  not 
necessarily  those  of    irreproachable  life,  —  nay,   found  to 
meet  its  requirements  so  many  of  the  outcasts  of  society, 
that  He  incurred  the  reproach  of  being  the  companion  of 
publicans  and  sinners.     He,  too,  looked  for  an  inner,  oft- 
times   hidden   spring  of  enthusiasm, —an   unquenchable 
aspiration  after  something  higher  and  better,  which,  once 
aroused,  could  be  satisfied  by  no  conformity  with  mere 
outward  law,  such  as  the  Pharisees  found  sufficient.     He 
recognized  that  in  the  very  fineness  and  richness  of  the 
highest  natures,  there  lies  the  double  possibility  of  sur- 
passing   excellence    or   of    surpassing    evil;    while   cold, 
calculating    mediocrity  is  incapable  of  cither.     In  short,' 
much  of  Browning's  philosophy  is  a  restatement  of  the  old 
truths  of   Christianity  from    the   standpoint   and    in  the 
language  of  the  Nineteenth  century.     This  is  a  task  for 
which  his  intellectual  appreciation  of  the  thought  of  to-day, 
and  his  constitutional  sympathy  with  the  fundamental  con- 
ceptions of  Christianity,  peculiarly  qualify  him.     Tiie  pres- 
ent chapter  outlines  the  aspect  of  Christianity  which  we 
find  emphasized  in  Browning's  poems. 

We  have  already  noted  how  natural  and  necessary  to 
Browning's  way  of  thinking  is  the  existence  of  a  personal 
God.  He  accepts  this  as  a  fundamental  fact  of  conscious- 
ness, no  less  evident  than  his  own  existence,  and  no  less 
incapable  of  proof.  That  this  God  is  also  a  God  of  power 
and  mtelligence,  he   finds   sufficiently  evidenced   in    the 


ft* 


62 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


natural  world.  But,  upon  God's  goodness  and  love,  the 
inextricable  mingling  of  evil  and  suffering  which  we_find 
in  the  constitution  of  this  universe,  may,  as  it  seems  to 
him,  not  unreasonably  cast  doubt.  And  here,  accordingly, 
Browning  first  attempts  demonstration.  First  of  all,  just 
as  in  Clean  he  presented  the  instinctive  need  and  yearning 
of  the  human  heart  for  immortality,  so  here  he  concretely 
presents  its  need  and  longing  for  a  God  of  love.  This 
point  is  set  forth  especially  in  the  two  fine  poems,  entitled 
Satdt  and  An  Epistle.     The  latter  we  proceed  to  quote. 

The  Epistle  depicts  the  effect  that  his  coming  in  contact 
with  Lazarus  some  years  after  the  miraculous  resurrection 
of  the  latter  had  upon  Karshish,  a  distinguished  Arab 
physician.  Karshish  is  a  typical  representative  of  the 
scientific  intellect,  bent  on  positive  and  practical  results. 
As  this  type  of  character  is  unfavorable  to  the  existence 
of  the  feeling  which  is  to  be  depicted,  the  poet  selects  it 
in  order  to  exhibit  the  universality  of  the  yearning  in  the 
human  heart  for  a  God  of  love  ;  just  as  in  Cleon  he  was 
careful  to  select  a  character  that  might  most  appropriately 
and  strongly  exhibit  the  truth  which  was  there  to  be  enforced. 
Upon  the  sciefttific  spirit  of  our  own  times,  the  poem  before 
us  has,  of  course,  a  bearing,  none  the  less  effective  because, 
after  Browning's  favorite  method,  dramatic  and  oblique. 
In  Karshish  himself  we  have  an  admirable  piece  of  por- 
traiture ;  the  struggle  between  intellectual  habits  and 
the  instincts  of  the  heart  is  presented  with  the  hand  of  a 
master.  In  addition,  the  poem  contains  an  interesting 
and  ingenious  study  of  the  condition  of  Lazarus,  —  of  the 
psychological  results  which  so  abnormal  an  experience  as 
his  might  have  upon  subsequent  life.  The  epistle  is 
written  from  Bethany  by  Karshish  soon  after  his  meeting 
with  Lazarus.     He  addresses  Abib,  his  former  teacher,  a 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


63 


famous  physician  and  scientist.  The  fulness  of  minute 
detail  in  the  opening  paragraphs,  which  serves  to  give 
reality  to  the  scene,  should  be  noted. 


AN  EPISTLE 

CONTAINING  THE  STRANGE  MEDICAL  EXPERIENCE  OF  KARSHISH,  THE 

ARAB  PHYSICIAN. 

Karshish,  the  picker-up  of  learning's  crumbs, 

The  not-incurious  m  God's  handiwork 

(This  man's-flesh  he  hath  admirably  made, 

Blown  like  a  bubble,  kneaded  like  a  paste. 

To  coop  up  and  keep  down  on  earth  a  space  t 

That  puff  of  vapor  from  his  mouth,  man's  soul) 

—  To  Abib,  all-sagacious  in  our  art, 

Breeder  in  me  of  what  poor  skill  1  boast. 

Like  me  inquisitive  how  pricks  and  cracks 

Befall  the  flesh  through  too  much  stress  and  strain,  10 

Whereby  the  wily  vapor  fain  would  slip 

Back  and  rejoin  its  source  before  the  term, 

And  aptest  in  contrivance  (under  God) 
To  baffle  it  by  deftly  stopping  such :  — 
The  vagrant  Scholar  to  his  Sage  at  home  t* 

Sends  greeting  (health  and  knowledge,  fame  with  peace) 
Three  samples  of  true  snake-stone  —  rarer  still, 
One  of  the  other  sort,  the  melon-shaped, 
(But  fitter,  pounded  fine,  for  charms  than  drugs) 
And  writeth  now  the  twenty-second  time.  ij^ 

» 
My  joumeyings  were  brought  to  Jericho  : 
Thus  I  resume.     Who  studious  in  our  art 
Shall  count  a  little  labor  unrepaid  ? 
I  have  shed  sweat  enough,  left  flesh  and  bone 
On  many  a  flinty  furlong  of  this  land.  35 

Also,  the  country-side  is  all  on  fire 


^ 

a 


1 

■J 


t>' 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    nROWNING. 


M 


40 


With  rumors  of  a  marching  hitherward; 
Some  say  Vespasian  cometh,  some,  liis  son; 

A  black  lynx  snarled  and  pricked  a  tufted  ear ; 

Lust  of  my  blood  inflamed  his  yellow  balls  : 

I  cried  and  threw  my  staff  and  he  was  gone. 

Twice  have  the  robbers  stripped  and  beaten  me, 

And  once  a  town  declared  me  for  a  spy ; 

But  at  the  end,  I  reach  Jerusalem, 

Since  this  poor  covert  where  I  pass  the  night,     - 

This  Bethany,  lies  scarce  the  distance  thence 

A  man  with  plague-sores  at  the  third  degree 

Runs  till  he  drops  down  dead.    Thou  laughest  here  ! 

'Sooth,  it  elates  me,  thus  reposed  and  safe, 

To  void  the  stuffing  of  my  travel-scrip 

And  share  with  thee  whatever  Jewry  yields. 

A  viscid  choler  is  observable 

In  tertians,  I  was  nearly  bold  to  say ; 

And  falling-sickness  hath  a  happier  cure  •,     . 

Than  our  school  wots  of:  there's  a  spider  here 

Weaves  no  web,  watches  on  the  ledge  of  tombs,        • 

Sprinkled  with  mottles  on  an  ash-gray  back ; 

Take  five  and  drop  them     .     .     .    but  who  knows  his  mind. 

The  Syrian  runagate  I  trust  this  to? 

His  service  payeth  me  a  sublimate 

Blown  up  his  nose  to  help  the  ailing  eye.  ' 

Best  wait ;  I  reach  Jerusalem  at  morn. 

There  set  in  order  my  experiences. 

Gather  what  most  deserves,  and  give  thee  all  — 

Or  I  might  add,  Judea's  gum-tragacanth 

Scales  off  in  purer  flakes,  shines  clearer-grained, 
Cracks  'twixt  the  pestle  and  the  porphyry. 
In  fine  exceeds  our  produce.     Scalp-disease 

28.  This  marks  the  time.     It  was  just  before  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem 
29-30^  This  IS  a  characteristic  piece  of  description.     By  seizing  a  detail  or 
two,  the  Poet  puts  a  picture  very  vividly  and  powerfully  before  our  eyes. 


45 


50 


55 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 

Confounds  me,  crossing  so  with  leprosy  — 
Thou  hadst  admired  one  sort  I  gained  at  Zoar  — 
But  zeal  outruns  discretion.     Here  I  end. 


65 


60 


The  physician  comes  out  in  the  peculiai'  method  of  indi- 
cating distance  (1.  37),  and  the  scientific  zeal,  in  the  humor- 
ous touch  of  1.  60. 

In  what  follows  we  see  the  shame  under  which  Karshish 
labors  at  allowing  his  critical  and  scientific  mind  to  be  so 
impressed  by  the  events  he  is  about  to  relate.  He  pro- 
fesses fear  that,  unless  he  writes  immediately,  the  case  of 
Lazarus  may  escape  his  memory.  We  shall  see,  before  the 
end  of  the  epistle,  evidence  enough  that  this  fear  is 
assumed. 


Yet  stay  :  my  Syrian  blinketh  gratefully, 
Protesteth  his  devotion  is  my  price  — 
Suppose  I  write  what  harms  not,  though  he  steal  ? 
I  half  resolve  to  tell  thee,  yet  I  blush, 
What  set  me  off  a- writing  first  of  all. 
An  itch  I  had,  a  sting  to  write,  a  tang  ! 
For,  be  it  this  town's  barrenness  —  or  else 
The  Man  had  something  in  the  look  of  him  — 
His  case  has  struck  me  far  more  than  'tis  worth. 
So,  pardon  if—  (lest  presently  I  lose, 
In  the  great  press  of  novelty  at  hand, 
The  care  and  pains  this  somehow  stole  from  me) 
I  bid  thee  take  the  thing  while  fresh  in  mind. 
Almost  in  sight  — for,  wilt  thou  have  the  truth? 
The  very  man  is  gone  from  me  but  now, 
Whose  ailment  is  the  subject  of  discourse. 
Thus  then,  and  let  thy  better  wit  help  all ! 


65 


70 


75 


'Tis  but  a  case  of  mania  —  subinduced 
By  epilepsy,  at  the  turning-point 


80 


6S 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


$0 


m 


Of  trance  prolonged  unduly  some  three  days  : 

When,  by  the  exhibition  of  some  drug 

Or  spell,  exorcization,  stroke  of  art 

Unknown  to  me,  and  which  'twere  well  to  know, 

The  evil  thing  out-breaking  all  at  once 

Left  the  man  whole  and  sound  of  body  indeed, — 

But,  flinging  (so  to  speak)  life's  gates  too  wide. 

Making  a  clear  house  of  it  too  suddenly. 

The  first  conceit  that  entered  might  inscribe 

Whatever  it  was  minded  on  the  wall 

So  plainly  at  that  vantage,  as  it  were, 

(First  come,  first  sen'ed)  that  nothing  subsequent 

Attaineth  to  erase  those  fancy-scrawls 

The  just-returned  and  new-established  soul 

Hath  gotten  now  so  thoroughly  by  heart 

That  henceforth  she  will  read  or  these  or  none. 

And  first  —  the  man's  own  firm  conviction  rests 

That  he  was  dead  (in  fact  they  buried  him) 

— That  he  was  dead  and  then  restored  to  life 

By  a  Nazarene  physician  of  his  tribe : 

— 'Sayeth,  the  same  bade  "  Rise,"  and  he  did  rise. 

"  Such  cases  are  diurnal,"  thou  wilt  cry. 

Not  so  this  figment !  —  not,  that  such  a  fume. 

Instead  of  giving  way  to  time  and  health, 

Should  eat  itself  into  the  life  of  life, 

As  saffron  tingeth  flesh,  blood,  bones,  and  all ! 

For  see,  how  he  takes  up  the  after-life. 

Karshish  accounts  for  it  all  in  a  natural  way,  with  his 
scientific  terms  —  "  a  case  of  mania :  subinduced  by  epi- 
lepsy," yet  all  the  while,  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  he 
feels  the  inadequacy  of  the  rationalistic  theory. 

In  the  passage  we  read  next,  we  come  to  the  fine  study 
of  Lazarus'  state  of  mind.  Lazarus,  having  actually  passed 
into  another  world,  and  seen  those  things  which  are  eter- 


lOO 


los 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING.  6/ 

nal,  thoroughly  realizes  and  lives  up  to  the  truths,  so  fre- 
quent and  often  so  meaningless  on  the  lips  of  Christians,  — 
of  the  nothingness  of  this  world,  —  of  having  our  hearts 
and   treasures  above.      He   measures  everything   by  the 
standard  which  experience  of  the  infinite  has  taught  him 
to  apply.    So,  the  great  and  small  events  of  external  history 
(as  we  reckon  thern)  seem  to  him  alike  unimportant.     The 
death  of  his  child  is  for  him  no  cause  of  sorrow.      He 
realizes  that  the  child  has  but  gone  before  to  a  happier  and 
better  sphere.     But  some  trifling  word  or  gesture  which 
gives  evidence  of  the  presence  and  power  of  evil,  throws 
him  into  an  agony  of  fear.     Just  as,  Karshish  goes  on 
to  explain,  their   former  teacher,  the  great  sage  of   the 
pyramid,  would  be  thrown  into  a  paroxysm  of  terror  by 
their  repeating  words  of  one  of   his  books,  trifling  and 
meaningless   to  them,  but  which  belonged   to  a  charm, 
as  the  sage  knew,  able  to  upturn  the  universe  from  its 
foundations. 


The  man  —  it  is  one  Lazarus  a  Jew, 
Sanguine,  proportioned,  fifty  years  of  age, 
The  body's  habit  wholly  laudable. 
As  much,  indeed,  beyond  the  common  health 
As  he  were  made  and  put  aside  to  show. 
Think,  could  we  penetrate  by  any  drug 
And  bathe  the  wearied  soul  and  worried  flesh. 
And  bring  it  clear  and  fair,  by  three  days'  sleep  ! 
Whence  has  the  man  the  balm  that  brightens  all  ? 
This  grown  man  eyes  the  world  now  like  a  child. 
Some  elders  of  his  tribe,  I  should  premise, 
Led  in  their  friend,  obedient  as  a  sheep. 
To  bear  my  inquisition.    While  they  spoke. 
Now  sharply,  now  with  sorrow,  — told  the  case,— 
He  listened  not  except  I  spoke  to  him, 


no 


"5 


1 20 


.!l.» 


68 


CHRISTIANITV    IN    [{ROWNINfl. 


JUit  folded  his  two  hands  and  let  them  talk, 

Watching  the  flies  that  buzzed  :  and  yet  no  fool. 

And  that's  a  sample  how  his  years  must  go. 

Look,  if  a  beggar,  in  fixed  middle-life. 

Should  find  a  treasure,  —  can  he  use  the  same 

With  straitened  habitude  and  tastes  starved  small. 

And  take  at  once  to  his  impoverished  brain 

The  sudden  element  that  changes  things, 

That  sets  the  undreamed-of  rapture  at  his  hand, 

And  puts  the  cheap  old  joy  in  the  scorned  dust  ? 

Is  he  not  such  an  one  as  moves  to  mirth  — 

Warily  parsimonious,  when  no  need. 

Wasteful  as  drunkenness  at  undue  times  ? 

All  prudent  counsel  as  to  what  befits 

The  golden  mean,  is  lost  on  such  an  one  : 

The  man's  fantastic  will  is  the  man's  law. 

So  here  —  we  call  the  treasure  knowledge,  say. 

Increased  beyond  the  fleshly  faculty  — 

Heaven  opened  to  a  soul  while  yet  on  earth. 

Earth  forced  on  a  soul's  use  while  seeing  heaven  : 

The  man  is  witless  of  the  size,  the  sum. 

The  value  in  proportion  of  all  things, 

Or  whether  it  be  little  or  be  much. 

Discourse  to  him  of  prodigious  armaments 

Assembled  to  besiege  his  city  now. 

And  of  the  passing  of  a  mule  with  gourds  — 

'Tis  one  !    Then  take  it  on  the  other  side. 

Speak  of  some  trifling  fact,  —  he  will  gaze  rapt 

With  stupor  at  its  very  littleness, 

(Far  as  I  see)  as  if  in  that  indeed 

He  caught  prodigious  import,  whole  results ; 

And  so  will  turn  to  us  the  bystanders 

In  ever  the  same  stupor  (note  this  point) 

That  we  too  see  not  with  his  opened  eyes. 

Wonder  and  doubt  come  wrongly  into  play, 


125 


130 


135 


140 


145 


150 


155 


CHRISTIAMTV    IN    UROWNING. 


6y 


Preposterously,  at  cross  purposes. 

Should  his  child  sicken  unto  death,  —  why,  look 

For  scarce  abatement  of  his  cheerfulness, 

Or  pretermission  of  the  daily  craft ! 

While  a  won!,  gesture,  glance  from  that  same  child 

At  play  or  in  the  school  or  laid  asleep, 

Will  startle  him  to  an  agony  of  fear, 

Exasperation,  just  as  like.     Demand 

The  reason  why  —  "  'tis  hut  a  word,"  object  — 

"  A  gesture  "  —  he  regards  thee  as  our  lord 

Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone, 

Looked  at  us  (dost  thou  mind  ?)  when,  being  young, 

We  both  would  unadvisedly  recite 

Some  charm's  beginning,  from  that  book  of  his. 

Able  to  bid  the  sun  throb  wide  and  burst" 

All  into  stars,  as  suns  grown  old  are  wont. 

Thou  and  the  child  have  each  a  veil  alike 

Thrown  o'er  your  heads,  from  under  which  ye  botli 

Stretch  your  blind  hands  and  trille  with  a  match 

Over  a  mine  of  Greek  fire,  did  ye  know  ! 

He  holds  on  firmly  to  some  thread  of  life  — 

( It  is  the  life  to  lead  perforcedly) 

Which  runs  across  some  vast  distracting  orb 

Of  glory  on  either  side  that  meagre  thread. 

W hich,  conscious  of,  he  must  not  enter  )et  — 

The  spiritual  life  around  the  earthly  life  : 

The  law  of  that  is  known  to  him  as  this, 

His  heart  and  brain  move  there,  his  feet  stay  here. 

So  is  the  man  perplext  with  impulses 

Sudden  to  start  off  crosswise,  not  straight  on. 

Proclaiming  what  is  right  and  wrong  across. 

And  not  along,  this  black  thread  through  thi  Maze  — 

"  It  should  be  "  baulked  by  "  here  it  cannot  be." 

And  oft  the  man's  soul  springs  into  his  face 

As  if  he  saw  again  and  heard  again 


1 60 


if>S 


170 


175 


180 


i«5 


190 


70 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    IlKOWNING. 


His  sage  that  bade  him  "  Rise  "  and  he  did  rise. 

Something,  a  word,  a  tick  o'  the  blood  witliin 

Admonishes :  then  back  he  sinks  at  once 

To  ashes,  who  was  very  fire  before, 

In  sedulous  recurrence  to  his  trade 

Whereby  he  earneth  him  the  daily  bread ; 

And  studiously  the  humbler  for  that  pride, 

Professedly  the  faultier  that  he  knows 

God's  secret,  while  he  holds  the  thread  of  life. 

Indeed  the  especial  marking  of  the  man 

Is  prone  submission  to  the  heavenly  will  — 

Seeing  it,  what  it  is,  and  why  it  is. 

'Sayeth,  he  will  wait  patient  to  the  last 

For  that  same  death  which  must  restore  his  being 

To  equilibrium,  body  loosening  soul 

Divorced  even  now  by  premature  full  growth  : 

He  will  live,  nay,  it  pleaseth  him  to  hve 

So  long  as  God  please,  and  just  how  God  please. 

He  even  seeketh  not  to  please  God  more 

(Which  meaneth,  otherwise)  than  as  God  please. 

Hence,  I  perceive  not  he  affects  to  preach 

The  doctrine  of  his  sect  whate'er  it  be. 

Make  proselytes  as  madmen  thirst  to  do  : 

How  can  he  give  his  neighbor  the  real  ground. 

His  own  conviction  ?    Ardent  as  he  is  — 

Call  his  great  truth  a  lie,  why,  still  the  old 

"  Be  it  as  God  please  "  reassureth  him. 

I  probed  the  sore  as  thy  disciple  should  : 

"  How,  beast,"  said  I,  "  this  stolid  carelessness 

Sufficeth  thee,  when  Rome  is  on  her  march 

To  stamp  out  like  a  little  spark  thy  town. 

Thy  tribe,  thy  crazy  tale,  and  thee  at  once? " 

He  merely  looked  with  his  large  eyes  on  me. 

The  man  is  apathetic,  you  deduce  ? 

Contrariwise,  he  loves  both  old  and  young, 


•95 


200 


205 


210 


215 


220 


225 


CHRISTrANITY    IN    DROWNING. 


Able  and  weak,  affects  the  very  brutes 

And  birds  — how  say  I?  flowers  of  the  field  — 

As  a  wise  workman  recognizes  tools 

In  a  master's  workshop,  loving  what  they  make. 

Thus  is  the  man  as  harmless  as  a  lamb : 

Only  impatient,  let  him  do  his  best, 

At  ignorance  and  carelessness  and  sin  — 

An  indignation  which  is  promptly  curbed  : 

As  when  in  certain  travel  I  have  feigned 

To  be  an  ignoramus  in  our  art 

According  to  some  preconceived  design, 

And  happened  to  hear  the  land's  practitioners, 

Steeped  in  conceit  sublimed  by  ignorance, 

Prattle  fantastically  on  disease, 

Its  cause  and  cure  — and  I  must  hold  my  peace  ! 


230 


235 


240 


It  must  be  noted  that  the  case  of  Lazarus  is  an  exempli- 
fication of  the  truth  spoken  of  at  the  close  of  the  last 
chapter.     The  limitation  of  our  perception   of   truth   is 
needful  in  order  that  the  soul,  exerting  itself  to  obtain  the 
relative  ^ood  of   the   present  sphere,  may  undergo   that 
discipline  which  is  the  purpose  of  the  present  stage  of 
existence.      Lazarus,   through    his  deeper    perception   of 
truth,  is  actually  incapacitated  for  the  present  world.     He 
is  reduced  to  apathy  and  inaction.     The  remainder  of  his 
life  here  is  but  a  half-slumberous  waiting  for  its  close,  not 
the  strenuous,  ardent  striving  after  ever-loftier  aims,  which 
the  poet  lays  down  as  being  the  highest  and  most  healthful 
condition  of  the  soul. 

Thou  wilt  object  — Why  have  I  not  ere  this 
Sought  out  the  sage  himself,  the  Nazarene 
Who  wrought  this  cure,  inquiring  at  the  source,  245 

Conferring  with  the  frankness  that  befits  ? 
Alas  !  it  grieveth  me,  the  learned  leech 


*«« 


CHKISTIANITY    IN    UROWNING. 


Perished  in  a  tninmit  many  years  ago, 

Accused,  —  our  learning's  fate,  —  of  wizardry, 

Rebellion,  to  the  setting  up  a  rule 

And  creed  prodigious,  as  described  to  me. 

His  death,  which  happened  when  the  earthquake  fell 

(Prefiguring,  as  soon  appeared,  the  loss 

To  occult  learning  in  our  lord  the  sage 

Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone) 

Was  wrought  ])y  the  mad  people  —  that's  their  wont ! 

On  vain  recourse,  as  I  conjecture  it. 

To  his  tried  virtue,  for  miraculous  help  — 

How  could  he  stop  the  earthquake  ?    That's  their  way  ! 

The  other  imputations  must  be  lies : 

But  take  one,  though  I  loathe  to  give  it  thee,    , 

In  mere  respect  for  any  good  man's  fame. 

(And  after  all,  our  patient  Lazarus 

Is  stark  mad ;  should  we  count  on  what  he  says? 

Perhaps  not :  though  m  writing  to  a  leech 

'Tis  well  to  keep  back  nothing  of  a  case.) 

This  man  so  cured  regards  the  curer,  then, 

As  —  God  forgive  me  !  who  but  God  himself. 

Creator  and  sustainer  of  the  world. 

That  came  and  dwelt  in  flesh  on  it  awhile  ! 

—  'Sayeth  that  such  an  one  was  born  and  lived. 

Taught,  healed  the  sick,  broke  bread  at  his  own  house, 

Then  died,  with  Lazarus  by,  for  aught  I  know. 

And  yet  was  .  .  .  what  I  said  nor  choose  repeat, 

And  must  have  so  avouched  himself,  in  fact, 

In  hearing  of  this  very  Lazarus 

Who  saith  —  but  why  all  this  of  what  he  saith  ? 

Why  write  of  trivial  matters,  things  of  price 

Calling  at  every  moment  for  remark  ?  ' 

I  noticed  on  the  margin  of  a  pool  " 

Blue-flowering  borage,  the  Aleppo  sort, 

Aboundeth,  very  nitrous.     It  is  strange  ! 


250 


255 


260 


265 


270 


m 


CIIKISTIANIIV    IN    lJl<OUMN(i. 


7^ 


There  is  a  fine  unconscious  irony  in  Karshish  rifcnin'^ 
the  carth(iuake  which  occurred  at  the  crucifixion,  to  the 
death  of  the  aforcme7jtioned  sa^^e  of  the  pyramid  (I.  25^); 
in  doing  so,  he  affords  an  example  of  that  creduhty  to  which 
the  scientific  mind,  in  certain  circumstances,  is  open. 

Ashamed  of  the  hold  which  the  words  of  Lazarus  have 
taken  upon  him,  Karshish  tries  to  recover  his  ordinary 
standpoint  (276  ff.),  and  turns  to  matters  of  real  import 
(unconscious  irony  a«;ain),  the  existence  of  "  hlue-flowering 
borage,"   etc.      Note    the    fine   ambiguity  of    the  "It    is 


strange 


He  goes  on  to  finish  the  letter  in  a  simulated  tone  of 
indifference  :  — 


Thy  pardon  for  this  Ions  -'"id  tedious  rase. 
Which,  now  that  I  review  it,  needs  must  seem 
Unduly  dwelt  on,  prolixly  set  forth  ! 
Xor  I  myself  discern  in  what  is  writ 
Good  cause  for  the  peculiar  interest 
And  awe  indeed  this  man  has  toiK  hod  me  with. 
Perhaps  the  journey's  end,  the  weariness 
Had  wrought  upon  me  first.     I  met  him  thus : 
I  crossed  a  ridge  of  short  sharp  broken  hills 
Like  an  old  lion's  cheek  teeth.     Out  there  came 
A  moon  made  like  a  face  with  certain  spots 
Multiform,  manifold  and  menaring  : 
Then  a  wind  rose  behind  me.     So  we  met 
In  this  old  sleepy  town  at  unaware. 
The  man  and  I.     I  send  thee  what  is  writ. 
Regard  it  as  a  chmce,  a  matter  risked 
To  this  ambiguous  Syrian  :   he  may  lose, 
Or  steal,  or  give  it  thee  with  equal  good. 
Jerusalem's  repose  shall  make  amends 
For  time  this  letter  wastes,  thy  time  and  mine  ; 
Till  when,  once  more  thy  pardon  and  farewell  ! 


2.'^ 


100 


•lO.i 


3»o 


74 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


But  at  last  in  the  postscript,  the  genuihe  feeling  breaks 
forth,  —  the  yearning  cry  of  the  human  heart  for  a  God  of 
love,  the  consciousness  of  the  complete  satisfaction,  the 
peace,  the  rest  that  the  knowledge  of  such  a  trut^:  "ould 
give. 

The  very  God  !  think,  Abib ;  dost  thou  think  ? 
So,  the  All-Great,  were  the  All- Loving  too —  315 

So,  through  the  thunder  comes  a  human  voice 
Saying,  "  O  heart  I  made,  a  heart  beats  here  ! 
Face,  my  hands  fashioned,  se^it  in  myself ! 
Thou  hast  no  power  nor  may'st  conceive  of  mine. 
But  love  I  gave  thee,  with  myself  to  love,  320 

And  thou  must  love  me  who  have  died  for  thee  !  " 
The  madman  saith  He  said  so  :  it  is  strange. 

Attention  need  scarcely  be  dnwn  to  the  fact  that  this  poem 
is  an  admirable  example  of  Browning's  characteristic 
method,  described  in  the  first  Chapter. 

The  very  existence  of  the  need  which  the  poet  finds  in 
mankind,  and  exemplifies  in  Karshish, — that  God,  the 
all-wise,  should  be  the  all-loving  too,  —  is  for  a  transcen- 
dentalist,  like  Browning,  an  argument  for  the  existence  of 
that  which  can  satisfy  the  need.  He  deduces  another 
argument  from  the  constitution  of  humanity,  from  the 
existence  of  love  in  men  themselves.  If  God  does  not 
possess  this  quality,  the  creature  is  higher  than  the 
Creator.     The  speaker  in  Christmas  Eve  says  :  — 

In  youth  I  looked  to  these  very  skies,  .  ,- 

And  probing  their  immensities,  ^• 

I  found  God  there,  His  visible  power ; 

Yet  felt  in  my  heart,  amid  all  its  sense 

Of  that  power,  an  equal  evidence 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


75 


That  his  love,  there  too,  was  the  nobler  dower. 
For  the  loving  worra  within  its  clod 
Were  diviner  than  a  loveless  (iod 


Amid  his  worlds,  I  will  dare  to  say. 


— (p.  220.) 


Still  for  this  quality  there  is  lacking  the  fulness  of  mani- 
festation and   proof   which  we   have  in   the  case  of   the 
qualities  of  power  and  intelligence.     Ths  lack  Browning 
finds  exactly  supplied  by  the  manifestatioa  of  God  as  love 
which  is  recorded  in  the  New  Testament.     It  is,  therefore, 
in  no  subtle  system  of  doctfine,  such  as  Calvinism,  for 
example,  presents,  that  Browning  finds  the  worth  of  Chris- 
tianity ;  but  in  the  fact  that  it  reveals  God  as  a  God  of  love, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  affords  a  sufficient  object  to  draw  out 
worthily,  and  infinitely  the  love  in  man's  own  heart.     The 
strength  and  proof  of  Christianity  lies  in  its  correspondence 
to  the  needs  of   the  human   heart,  and   in  the  complete 
solution  it  provides  for  all  the  difficulties  of  the  universe. 
Such  15  the  view  that  the  great  and  good  Pope  Innocent 
presents  in  The  Ring  and  The  Book.     After  considering 
God  as  manifest  in  his  work.s,  he  turns  (Book  X.,  1.  1361) 
to  God  manifest  in  Christ  :  — 


Conjecture  of  the  ^v^rkt  -  by  the  work  : 

Is  there  strength  there ^  —  enough  :  intelligence? 

Ample  :  but  gc  d-  3ss  in  a  like  degree? 

Not  to  the  human  eye  in  the  present  state, 

This  isosocele  deficient  in  the  base. 

What  lacks,  then,  of  perfection  fit  for  God 

But  just  the  instance  which  this  tale  supplies 

Of  love  without  a  limit  ?    So  is  strength. 

So  is  intelligence ;  then  love  is  so. 


^365 


1361.  That  is- Judge  the  Creator  by  the  qualities  manifested  in  his  work. 
I367-  "  This  tale  " :  the  story  of  the  (JospeU. 


76 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


1370 


1375 


1380 


1385 


Unlimited  in  its  self-sacrifice  : 

Then  is  the  tale  true  and  God  shows  complete. 

Beyond  the  tale,  I  reach  into  the  dark, 

Feel  what  I  cannot  see,  and  still  faith  stands : 

I  can  believe  this  dread  machinery 

Of  sin  and  sorrow,  would  confound  me  else. 

Devised,  —  all  pain,  at  most  expenditure 

Of  pain  by  Who  devised  pain, —  to  evolve, 

By  new  machinery  in  counterpart, 

The  moral  qualities  of  man  —  how  else  ?  — 

To  make  him  love  in  turn  and  be  beloved. 

Creative  and  self-sacrificing  too, 

And  thus  eventually  God-like,  ay, 

"  I  have  said  ye  are  Gods,"  --and  shall  it  be  said  for  naught? 

Enable  man  to  wring,  from  out  all  pain. 

All  pleasure  for  a  common  heritage 

To  all  eternity  :  this  may  be  surmised, 

The  other  is  revealed,  —  whether  a  fact, 

Absolute,  abstract,  independent  truth, 

Historic,  not  reduced  to  suit  man's  mind,  — 

Or  only  truth  reverberate,  changed,  made  pass 

A  spectrum  into  mind,  the  narrow  eye,  — 

The  same  and  not  the  same,  else  unconceived  — 

Though  quite  conceivable  to  the  next  grade 

Above  it  in  intelligence,  — as  truth 

Easy  to  man,  were  blindness  to  the  beast 

By  parity  of  procedure,—  the  same  truth 

In  a  new  form,  but  changed  in  either  case  : 

What  matter  so  intelligence  be  filled  ? 

To  the  child  the  sea  is  angry,  for  it  soars  : 

Fiost  bites,  else  why  the  tooth-like  fret  on  face?  1400 

I37S-  I-'-i  of  sin  and  sorrow  which  would,  etc. 

1386.  "This":  the  explanation  of  the  object  of  pain  just  enunciated. 

1387.  "Th?  other":    the  manifestation   of  God  as  love  narrated  in  the 
Gospels.  . 


1390 


1395 


CHRISTIA.VITV    IN    BKOWNING. 

Man  makes  acoustics  deal  with  the  sea's  wrath, 

Explains  the  choppy  cheek  by  chymic  law,  — 

To  both,  remains  one  and  the  same  effect 

On  drum  of  ear  and  root  of  nose,  change  cause 

Never  so  thoroughly  :  so  our  heart  be  struck, 

What  care  I,  —  by  God's  gloved  hand  or  the  bare  ? 

Nor  do  I  much  perplex  me  with  aught  hard, 

Dubious  is  the  transmitting  of  the  tale,  — 

No,  nor  with  certain  riddles  set  to  solve. 

This  life  is  training  and  a  passage  :  pass,  — 

Still,  we  march  over  some  flat  obstacle 

W?  made  give  way  before  us ;  solid  truth 

In  front  of  it,  were  motion  for  the  world  ? 

The  moral  sense  grows  but  by  exercise. 


n 


1405 


1410 


In  lines  1387  ff.  the  Pope  states  that  he  will  not 
attempt  to  say  whether  the  facts  narrated  in  the  Gospels 
are  absolute  truth,  or  truth  adapted  to  man's  imper- 
fectly developed  intellect.  They  afford,  in  any  case,  all 
the  truth  that  man  is  capable  of  receiving.  The  result 
is  the  same,  just  as  the  result  is  the  same  whether  we 
suppose  that  the  frost  bites  us  with  its  tooth,  or  under- 
stand scientifically  the  way  its  effect  is  produced  on  our 
cheek.  In  1409  ff.  the  Pope  further  says  that  the  difficul- 
ties which  surround  Christianity  do  not  trouble  him,  for 
this  life  is  the  training  period  of  the  soul ;  and  difficulties 
are  necessary  for  spiritual  progress.  Browning  is  not, 
then,  disposed  to  lay  stress  on  the  externals  of  "  the  tale  " 
Miracles  he  would  not  ..gard  as  the  main  support  of 
Christianity.  They  may  indeed  have  been  needful  at  the 
first  to  give  Christian  doctrine  a  foothold   in  the  world. 

1412-13.    That  is,  if  there  were  solid  truth  in  front  of  the  world,  no  mo- 
tion  or  progress  would  be  possible. 


78 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


Now,  by  lapse  of  time,  the  evidence  for  miracles  has  be- 
£ome  weakened.  What  matters  it  ?  For  us,  Christianity 
is  proved  by  its  sufficiency  for  our  needs. 

This,  and  the  various  other  points  referred  to,  are  to  be 
found  dramatically  presented  in  the  mouth  of  the  dying 
St.  John  in  A  Death  in  the  Desert. 

The  opening  paragraph  of  this  poem  is  represented  as 
being  written  by  an  early  Christian,  into  whose  possession 
the  original  manuscript  containing  the  narrative  of  John's 
death,  has  come.  He  informs  us  that  the  author  is  sup- 
posed to  be  Pamphylax,  the  Antiochene,  and  gives  an  air 
of  reality  to  the  poem  by  various  bibliographical  details. 

A  DEATH   IN  THE  DESERT. 

[Supposed  of  Pamphylax  the  Antiochene  : 

It  is  a  parchment,  of  my  rolls  the  fifth, 

Hath  three  skins  glued  together,  is  all  Greek, 

And  goeth  from  Epsilon  down  to  Mu : 

Lies  second  in  the  sumamed  Chosen  Chest,  t 

Stained  and  conserved  with  juice  of  terebinth, 

Covtred  with  cloth  of  hair,  and  lettered  Xi, 

From  Xanthus,  my  wife's  uncle,  now  at  peace  : 

Mu  and  Epsilon  stand  for  my  own  name, 

I  may  not  write  it,  but  I  make  a  cross  lo 

To  show  I  wait  His  coming,  with  the  rest, 

And  leave  off  here  :  beginneth  Pamphylax.] 

The  account   by  Pamphylax  begins  with  a  vivid  descrip- 
tion of  the  circumstances  of  John's  death  : — 


4.  1  his  line  seems  to  refer  to  the  arrangement  of  the  Mss.  in  the  library, 
which  were  marked  with  Greek  letters. 
6.  "Terebinth":  the  turpentine  tree. 


CHRISTIANITY   IN    BROWNING. 

I  said,  "  If  one  should  wet  his  lips  with  wine, 

And  slip  the  broadest  plaintain-leaf  we  find, 

Or  else  the  lappet  of  a  linen  robe, 

Into  the  water-vessel,  lay  it  right. 

And  cool  his  forehead  just  above  the  eyes. 

The  while  a  brother,  kneeling  either  side, 

Should  chafe  each  hand  and  try  to  make  it  warm,  ■ 

He  is  not  so  far  gone  but  he  might  speak." 

This  did  not  happen  in  the  outer  cave. 
Nor  in  the  secret  chamber  of  the  rock. 
Where,  sixty  days  since  the  decree  was  out, 
We  had  him,  bedded  on  a  camel-skin. 
And  waited  for  his  dying  all  the  while  ; 
But  in  the  midmost  grotto :  since  noon'*  light 
Reached  there  a  little,  and  we  would  not  lose 
The  last  of  what  might  happen  on  his  face. 

I  at  the  head,  and  Xanthus  at  the  feet. 

With  Valens  and  the  Boy,  had  lifted  him, 

And  brought  him  from  the  cha.nber  in  the  depths, 

And  laid  him  in  the  light  where  we  might  see  : 

For  certain  smiles  began  about  his  mouth. 

And  his  lids  moved,  presageful  of  the  end. 

Beyond,  and  halfway  up  the  mouth  o'  the  cave. 
The  Bactrian  convert,  having  his  desire, 
Kept  watch,  and  made  pretence  to  graze  a  goat 
That  gave  us  milk,  on  rags  of  various  herb, 
Plaintain  and  quitch,  the  rocks'  shade  keeps  alive  : 
So  that  if  any  thief  or  soldier  passed, 
(Because  the  persecution  was  aware,) 
Yielding  the  goat  up  promptly  with  his  life. 
Such  man  might  pass  on,  joyful  at  a  prize, ' 
Nor  care  to  pry  into  the  cool  o'  the  cave. 
Outside  was  all  noon  and  the  burning  blue. 

41.  "  Aware  " ;  on  the  alert 


^ 


n 


i& 


*S 


35 


40 


45 


8o 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


"  Here  is  wine,"  answered  Xanthus,  —  dropped  a  drop ; 
I  stooped  and  placed  the  lap  of  cloth  aright, 
Then  chafed  his  right  hand,  and  the  Boy  his  left : 
But  Valens  had  bethought  him,  and  produced 
And  broke  a  ball  of  nard,  and  made  perfume. 
Only,  he  did  —  not  so  much  wake,  as — turn 
And  smile  a  little,  as  a  sleeper  does 
If  any  dear  one  call  him,  touch  his  face  — 
And  smiles  and  loves,  but  will  not  be  disturbed. 


50 


Then  Xanthus  said  a  prayer,  but  still  he  slept : 

It  is  the  Xanthus  that  escaped  to  Rome, 

Was  burned,  and  could  not  write  the  chronicle. 


55 


Then  the  Boy  sprang  up  from  his  knees,  and  ran, 
Stung  by  the  splendor  of  a  sudden  thought, 
And  fetched  the  seventh  plate  of  graven  lead 
Out  of  the  secret  chamber,  found  a  place, 
Pressing  with  finger  on  the  deeper  dints. 
And  spoke,  as  'twere  his  mouth  proclaiming  first, 
"  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life." 


60 


Whereat  he  opened  his  eyes  wide  at  once. 
And  sat  up  of  himself,  and  looked  at  us  : 
And  thenceforth  nobody  pronounced  a  word  ; 
Only,  outside,  the  Bactrian  cried  his  cry 
Like  the  lone  desert-bird  that  wears  the  ruff, 
As  signal  we  were  safe,  from  time  to  time. 


65 


70 


First  he  said,  "  If  a  friend  declared  to  me. 

This  my  son  Valens,  this  my  other  son, 

Were  James  aq^d  Peter,  —  nay,  declared  as  well 

59-63.  The  reference  is  evidently  to  plates  of  metal  with  John's  gospel  en- 
graved thereon. 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


8r 


This  lad  was  very  John,  —  J  could  believe  ! 
—  Could,  for  a  moment,  doubtlessly  believe  : 
So  is  myself  withdrawn  into  my  depths, 
The  soul  retreated  from  the  perished  brain 
Whence  it  was  wont  to  feel  and  use  the  world 
Through  these  dull  members,  done  with  long  ago. 
Yet  I  myself  remain  ;  I  feel  myself: 
And  there  is  nothing  lost.     Let  be,  awhile  ! " 


n 


80 


85 


John's  meaning  in  these  last  lines  is  made  clearer  by 
the  parenthesis  which  follows,  in  which  a  peculiar  theoiy 
of  the  constitution  of  the  soul  is  ascribed  to  John,  based 
on  the  authority  of  one  Theotypas. 

[This  is  the  doctrine  he  was  wont  to  teach, 

How  divers  persons  witness  in  each  man, 

Three  souls  which  make  up  one  soul :  first,  to  wit, 

A  soul  of  each  and  all  the  bodily  parts. 

Seated  therein,  which  works,  and  is  what  Does, 

And  has  the  u -o  of  earth,  and  ends  the  man 

Downward  :  but,  tending  upward  for  advice, 

(Jrows  into,  and  again  is  grown  into 

By  the  next  soul,  which,  seated  in  the  brain, 

Useth  the  first  with  its  collected  use. 

And  feeleth,  il.inketh,  willeth  — is  what  Knows: 

Which,  duly  tending  upward  in  its  turn. 

Grows  into,  and  again  is  grown  into 

By  the  last  soul,  that  uses  both  the  first. 

Subsisting  whether  they  assist  or  no, 

And,  constituting  man's  self,  is  what  Is  — 

And  leans  upon  the  former,  makes  it  play. 

As  that  played  off  the  first :  and,  tending  up, 

Holds,  is  upheld  by,  God,  and  ends  the  man 

Upward  in  that  dread  point  of  intercourse, 

Nor  needs  a  place,  for  it  returns  to  Him.  ' 


90 


95 


100 


ia 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    RROVVNING. 


What  Does,  what  Knows,  what  Is ;  three  souls,  one  man. 
I  give  the  glossa  of  Theotypas.] 

The  passage  which  follows  contains  an  idea  frequently  em- 
ployed by  Browning  (cf.  close  of  Sordello) ;  viz.,  that  the 
soul  on  the  eve  of  dissolution,  being  in  a  measure  free  from 
bodily  hindrances,  attains  to  a  clearer  and  deeper  percep- 
tion of  the  truth.  It  rises  above  the  transient,  temporal 
forms  which  truth  assumes,  to  the  perception  of  permanent 
and  absolute  verities. 

And  then,  "  A  stick,  once  fire  from  end  to  end ;  105 

Now,  ashes  save  the  tip  that  holds  a  spark  ! 

Yet,  blow  the  spark,  it  runs  back,  spreads  itself 

A  little  where  the  fire  was :  thus  I  urge 

The  soul  that  served  me,  till  it  task  once  more 

What  ashes  of  my  brain  have  kept  their  shape,  1 10 

And  these  make  effort  on  the  last  o'  the  flesh. 

Trying  to  fiste  again  the  truth  of  things  —  " 

(He  smiled)  —  "  their  very  superficial  truth ; 

As  that  ye  are  my  sons,  that  it  is  long 

Since  James  and  Peter  had  release  by  death,  115 

And  I  am  only  he,  your  brother  John, 

Wlio  saw  and  heard,  and  could  remember  all. 

Remember  all !    It  is  not  much  to  say. 

What  if  the  truth  broke  on  me  from  above 

As  once  and  oft-times  ?    Such  might  hap  again :  120 

Doubtlessly  He  might  stand  in  presence  here, 

With  head  wool-white,  eyes  flame,  and  feet  like  brass, 

The  sword  and  the  seven  stars,  as  I  have  seen  — 

I  who  now  shudder  only  and  surmise 

'  How  did  your  brother  bear  that  sight  and  live  ? '  125 

104.  "  Theotypas  "  :  not  an  historical  person. 

1 1 2- 1 13.  What  men  commonly  call  truth,  —  which  is,  however,  as  John  sees 
(hence  his  smile),  the  expression  of  merely  transient  and  superficial  relations. 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING.  $^ 

According  to  tradition  John  was  the  last  survivor  of  those 
who  had  seen  Jesus.     His  death,  then,  marks  a  transition  : 
Christianity  must  depend  henceforth  rather  on   internal, 
than  on  external  evidence,  which  lapse  of  time  inevitably 
weakens.     John,  too,  is  marked  among  the  writers  of  the 
New  Testament   as   giving   expression  especially  to   the 
more  spiritual   and    mystical  side   of  Christianity.      The 
occasion  and   the  man  are   therefore  dramatically  suited 
for    the    expression   of    that    aspect    of    Christianity  on 
which  BroMjning's  philosophy  and  temperament  lead  him 
to  dwell,  and  which,  he  thinks,  is  apt  to  be  lost  sight  of, 
in  the  attention  given  to  the  much  less  weighty  facts  of 
its  external  history. 

John  perceives  that  with  him  closes  a  stage  in  the  de- 
velopment of  Christianity  ;  for,  he  goes  on  to  state,  Chris- 
tian life  and  Christian  doctrine  are  progressive,  each  stage 
presenting  its  own  peculiar  obstacles  to  faith,  and  its  own 
peculiar  means  of  overcoming  these  obstacles.     In  each 
successive  stage  the  obstacles  are  of  a  more  subtle  char- 
acter, and  in  overcoming  them  the  soul  rises,  by  successive 
steps,  in  spiritual   prowess  and   spiritual   insight.      John 
himself  had  lived  through  more  than  one  of  these  phases. 
The  difficulties  in  the  acceptance  of  Christianity  in  its 
earliest  stage  were  met  by  miracles.     Then  a  new  danger 
threatened,  —  not  an  utter  rejection,  but  a  false  conception 
of  Christian  doctrines.     This,  again,  was  met  by  the  deeper 
insight,  which  John  himself  and  others  attained,  into  the 
meaning  of  the  teachings  and  life  of  Christ. 

"  If  I  live  yet,  it  is  for  good,  more  love 

Through  me  to  men :  be  nought  but  ashes  here 

That  keep  awhile  my  semblance,  who  was  John,  — 

Still,  when  they  scatter,  there  is  left  on  earth 

No  one  alive  who  knew  (consider  this  .)  130 


♦'•1 
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CMRISTIANITV    IN    UROWNINO. 


...     I 


140 


MS 


—  Saw  with  his  eyes  and  liandled  with  his  hands 
That  which  was  from  the  first,  the  Word  of  Life. 
How  will  it  be  when  none  more  saith  '  I  saw '  ? 

"Such  ever  was  love's  way :  to  rise,  it  stoops. 

Since  I,  whom  Christ's  mouth  taught,  was  bidden  teach,    135 

I  went  for  many  years  about  the  world. 

Saying  '  It  was  so  :  so  I  heard  and  saw,' 

Speaking  as  the  case  asked  :  and  men  believed. 

Afterward  came  the  message  to  myself 

In  Patmos  Isle ;  I  was  not  bidden  teach, 

But  simply  listen,  take  a  book  and  write. 

Nor  set  down  other  than  the  given  word, 

With  nothing  left  to  my  arbitrament 

To  choose  or  change  :  I  wrote,  and  men  believed. 

Then,  for  my  time  grew  brief,  no  message  more, 

No  call  to  write  again,  I  found  a  way, 

And,  reasoning  from  my  knowledge,  merely  taught 

Men  should,  for  love's  sake,  in  love's  strength,  believe ; 

Or  I  would  pen  a  letter  to  a  friend 

And  urge  the  same  as  friend,  nor  less  nor  more  : 

Friends  said  I  reasoned  rightly,  and  believed. 

But  at  the  last,  why,  I  seemed  left  alive 

Like  a  sea-jelly  weak  on  Patmos  strand, 

To  tell  dry  sea-beach  gazers  how  I  fared 

When  there  was  mid-sea,  and  the  mighty  things 

Left  to  repeat, '  I  saw,  I  heard,  I  knew,' 

And  go  all  over  the  old  ground  again, 

With  Antichrist  already  in  the  worid, 

And  many  Antichrists,  who  answered  prompt, 

*  Am  I  not  Jasper  as  thyself  art  John  ? 

Nay,  young,  wiiereas  through  age  thou  mayest  forget : 

Wherefore,  explain,  or  how  shall  we  believe  ? ' 

I  never  thought  to  call  down  fire  on  such. 

Or,  as  in  wonderful  and  early  days. 


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CHRISTIANrTY    IN    nK()VVNIN(;. 

Pick  up  the  scorpion,  tread  the  serpent  dumb ;  165 

But  patient  stated  much  of  the  Lord's  life 

Forgotten  or  misdehvered,  and  let  it  work  : 

Since  much  that  at  the  first,  in  deed  and  word, 

I^y  simply  and  sufficiently  exposed, 

Had  grown  (or  else  my  soul  was  grown  to  matcii. 

Fed  through  such  years,  familiar  with  such  li-ht, 

(luarded  and  guided  still  to  see  and  speak) 

Of  new  significance  and  fresh  result : 

What  first  were  guessed  as  points,  I  now  knew  stars. 

And  named  them  in  the  Gospel  I  have  writ. 

For  men  said,  '  It  is  getting  long  ago  : 

Where  is  the  promise  of  His  coming ? '  —  asked 

These  young  ones  in  their  strength,  as  loth  to  wait 

Of  me  who,  when  their  sires  were  born,  was  old. 

I,  for  I  loved  them,  answered,  joyfully,  jg^ 

Since  I  was  there,  and  helpful  in  my  age ; 

And,  in  the  main,  I  think  such  men  believed. 

Now,  as  his  soul  is  being  loosed  from  earthly  limitations, 
he  has  a  prophetic  view  of  a  distant  stage,  —  of  difficulties 
which  will  arise  for  a  remote  generation. 

"  Finally,  thus  endeavoring,  I  fell  sick, 
Ye  brought  me  here,  and  I  supposed  the  end, 
And  went  to  sleep  with  one  thought  that,  at  least. 
Though  the  whole  earth  -hould  lie  in  wickedness, 
We  had  the  truth,  might  leave  the  rest  to  God. 
Yet  now  I  wake  in  such  decrepitude 
As  I  had  slidden  down  and  fallen  afar. 
Past  even  the  presence  of  my  former  self. 
Grasping  the  while  for  stay  at  facts  which  snap. 
Till  I  am  found  away  from  my  own  world, 
Feeling  for  foothold  through  a  blank  profound, 
Along  with  unborn  people  in  strange  lands. 


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CHRISTIANITY    IN   BROWNING. 


Who  say — I  hear  said  or  conceive  they  say  — 
'  Was  John  at  all,  and  did  he  say  he  saw? 
Assure  us,  ere  we  ask  what  he  might  see  ! ' 


195 


!.« 


The  difficulty  to  which  John  proceeds  to  address  himself, 
is  the  difficulty  of  Browning's  own  time  and  generation, 
and  accordingly  this  poem  is  substantially  a  presentation 
of  Christianity  in  a  manner  adapted  to  the  needs  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  In  the  first  place,  whereas  our  cen- 
tury troubles  itself  so  much  about  the  external,  historical 
feicts  of  Christianity,  John  lays  stress  on  the  passage  that 
follows,  on  its  inner,  spiritual  truth,  which  is  ever  a  matter 
of  present  experience.  He,  already  almost  freed  from 
bodily  fetters,  sees  the  permanent  and  spiritual  face  to 
face ;  we  only  g^rasp  it  through  the  gross  form  of  material 
fact 


'*  And  how  shr^  I  assure  them?    Can  they  share 

— They,  who  have  flesh,  a  veil  of  youth  and  strength 

About  each  spirit,  that  needs  must  bide  its  time,  aoo 

Living  and  learning  still  as  years  assist 

Which  wear  the  thickness  thin,  and  let  man  see  — 

With  me  who  hardly  am  withheld  at  all, 

But  shudderingfy,  scarce  a  shred  between. 

Lie  bare  to  the  universal  prick  of  light?  205 

Is  it  for  nothing  we  grow  old  and  weak. 

We  whom  God  loves?    When  pain  ends,  gain  ends  too. 

To  me,  that  story  —  ay,  that  Life  and  Death 

Of  idiich  I  wrote  '  it  was '  —  to  me,  it  is ; 

— Is,  here  and  now :  I  apprehend  nought  else.  210 

Is  not  God  now  i'  the  woiid  His  power  first  made  ? 

Is  not  His  love  at  issue  still  with  sin, 

Visibly  when  a  wrong  is  done  on  earth? 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


87 


Love,  wrong,  and  pain,  what  see  I  else  around  ? 

Yea,  and  the  Resurrection  and  Uprise  215 

To  the  right  hand  of  the  throne  —  what  is  it  beside. 

When  such  truth,  breaking  bounds,  o'erfloods  my  soul. 

And,  as  I  saw  the  sin  and  death,  even  so 

See  I  the  need  yet  transiency  of  both, 

The  good  and  glory  consummated  thence  ?  220 

I  saw  the  power ;  I  see  the  Love,  once  weak. 

Resume  the  Power :  and  in  this  word  '  I  see,' 

Lo,  there  is  recognized  the  Spirit  of  both 

That  moving  o'er  the  spirit  of  man,  unblinds 

His  eye  and  bids  him  look.    These  are,  I  see  ;  225 

But  ye,  the  children,  His  beloved  ones  too, 

Ye  need,  —  as  I  should  use  an  optic  glass 

I  wondered  at  erewhile,  somewhere  i*  the  world, 

It  had  been  given  a  crafty  smith  to  make  ; 

A  tube,  he  turned  on  objects  brought  too  close,  230 

Lying  confusedly  insubordinate 

For  the  unassisted  eye  to  master  once : 

Look  through  his  tube,  at  distance  now  they  lay. 

Become  succinct,  distinct,  so  small,  so  clear ! 

Just  thus,  ye  needs  must  apprehend  what  truth  235 

I  see,  reduced  to  plain  historic  fact. 

Diminished  into  clearness,  proved  a  point 

And  far  away :  ye  would  withdraw  your  sense 

From  out  eternity,  strain  it  upon  time, 

Then  stand  before  that  fact,  that  Life  and  Death,  240  " 

Stay  there  at  gaze,  till  it  dispart,  dispread, 

As  though  a  star  should  open  out,  all  sides. 

Grow  the  world  on  you,  as  it  is  my  world 

The  central  fact  of  the  Christian  revelation  is  the  manifes- 
tation of  God  as  a  God  of  love ;  and  the  grasping  of  this 
fact  is  for  each  individual  soul  the  highest  test  and  highest 
exercise  of  its  powers.     In  order  that  each  individual  may 


n% 


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■M'l    I 

..,.11 


88 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


Im 


I'M 

'-5 

•  ■•4 


be  submitted  to  the  test,  and  receive  the  benefit  of  the 
effort,  it  is  necessary  that  this  truth  should  not  prove 
itself  to  mankind  once  for  all,  as  material  truths  are  proved. 
Accordingly,  the  difficulties  which  attend  the  acceptance 
of  this  truth  are  continually  changing. 

"  For  life,  with  all  it  yields  of  joy  and  woe, 

And  hope  and  fear,  —  believe  the  aged  friend,  —  345 

Is  just  our  chance  o'  the  prize  of  learning  love, 

How  love  might  be,  hath  been  indeed,  and  is ; 

And  that  we  hold  thenceforth  to  the  uttermost 

Such  prize  despite  the  envy  of  the  world, 

And,  having  gained  truth,  keep  truth  :  that  is  all.  350 

But  see  the  double  way  wherein  we  are  led, 

How  the  soul  learns  diversely  from  the  flesh  ! 

With  flesh,  that  hath  so  little  time  to  stay. 

And  yields  mere  basement  for  the  soul's  emprise. 

Expect  prompt  teaching.     Helpful  was  the  light,  355 

And  warmth  was  cherishing  and  food  was  choice 

To  every  man's  flesh,  thousand  years  ago. 

As  now  to  yours  and  mine;  the  body  sprang 

At  once  to  the  height,  and  stayed :  but  the  soul,  —  no  ! 

Since  sages  who,  this  noontide,  meditate  360 

In  Rome  or  Athens,  may  descry  some  point 

Of  the  eternal  power,  hid  yestereve  ; 

And,  as  thereby  the  power's  whole  mass  extends, 

So  much  extends  the  aether  floating  o'er 

The  love  that  tops  the  might,  the  Christ  in  God.  365 

Then,  as  new  lessons  shall  be  learned  in  these 

Till  earth's  work  stop  and  useless  time  run  out. 

So  duly,  daily,  needs  provision  be 

For  keeping  the  soul's  prowess  possible. 

Building  new  barriers  as  the  old  decay,  870 

Saving  us  from  evasion  of  life's  proof, 

Putting  the  question  ever,  '  Does  God  love. 


275 


28o 


285 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 

And  will  ye  hold  that  truth  against  the  world?' 

Ye  know  their  needs  no  second  proof  with  good 

Gained  for  our  flesh  from  any  earthly  source : 

We  might  go  freezing,  ages,  —  give  us  fire. 

Thereafter  we  judge  fire  at  its  full  worth. 

And  guard  it  safe  through  every  chance,  ye  know  ! 

That  fable  of  Prometheus  and  his  theft. 

How  mortals  gained  Jove's  fiery  flower,  grows  old 

(I  have  been  used  to  hear  the  pagans  own) 

And  out  of  mind;  but  fire,  howe'er  its  birth. 

Here  is  it,  precious  to  the  sophist  now 
Who  laughs  the  myth  of  ^schylus  to  scorn, 
As  precious  to  those  satyrs  of  his  play, 
Who  touched  it  in  gay  wonder  at  the  thing. 
While  were  it  so  with  the  soul,  —  this  gift  of  truth 
Once  grasped,  were  this  our  soul's  gain  safe,  and  sure 
To  prosper  as  the  body's  gain  is  wont,  — 
Why,  man's  probation  would  conclude,  his  earth 
Crumble ;  for  he  both  reasons  and  decides, 
Weighs  first,  then  chooses :  will  he  give  up  fire 
For  gold  or  purple  once  he  knows  its  worth  ? 
Could  he  give  Christ  up  were  His  worth  as  plain? 
Therefore,  I  say,  to  test  man,  the  proofs  shift. 
Nor  may  he  grasp  that  fact  like  other  fact, 
And  straightway  in  his  life  acknowledge  it, 
As,  say,  the  indubitable  bliss  of  fire.  ' 

But,  we  may  urge,  the  difficulties  in  our  day  are  much  greater 
than  chose  with  which  John  had  to  contend.  Not  so  he 
answers  ;  facts  show  otherwise ;  I,  indeed,  had  material 
evidence  for  my  faith,  yet  mere  physical  force  was  able  to 
vanquish  that  faith.  Gradually,  however,  by  such  trials 
the  spiritual  strength  of  believers  was  developed,  and  they 
were  able  to  hold  fast  to  the  truth  in  the  face  of  all  phys- 
ical  violence.     Then  subtler  forms  of  trial  arose.     Men 


89 


390 


'95 


90 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


were  tempted  by  false  conceptions  of  the  doctrine  they 
had  embraced.  In  overcoming  these,  Christians  attained 
a  deeper  and  wider  insight  into  divine  truth.  And  so 
through  ages  new  difficulties  will  present  themselves ;  and 
John  sees  a  day  coming  when  it  will  be  questioned  whether 
John  himself  ever  existed, — whether  God  ever  actually 
did  reveal  himself  in  Christ  as  love. 


I" 

101     II 

,-8    i 


"  Sigh  ye,  *  It  had  been  easier  once  than  now '  ? 

To  give  you  answer  I  am  left  alive ;  300 

Look  at  me  who  was  present  from  the  first ! 

Ye  know  what  things  I  saw ;  then  came  a  test. 

My  first,  befitting  me  who  so  had  seen : 

'  Forsake  the  Christ  thou  sawest  transfigured.  Him 

Who  trod  the  sea  and  brought  the  dead  to  life  ?  305 

What  should  wring  this  from  thee  ? '  —  ye  laugh  and  ask. 

What  wrung  it?    Even  a  torchlight  and  a  noise. 

The  sudden  Roman  faces,  violent  hands, 

And  fear  of  what  the  Jews  might  do  !    Just  that. 

And  it  is  written, '  I  forsook  and  fled : '  310 

There  was  my  trial,  and  it  ended  thus. 

Ay,  but  my  soul  had  gained  its  truth,  could  grow : 

Another  year  or  two,  —  what  little  child. 

What  tender  woman  that  had  seen  no  least 

Of  all  my  sights,  but  barely  heatd  them  told,  315 

Who  did  not  clasp  the  cross  with  a  light  laugh,    s 

Or  wrap  the  burning  robe  round,  thanking  God  ? 

Well,  was  truth  safe  forever,  then?    Not  so. 

Already  had  begun  the  silent  work 

Whereby  truth,  deadened  of  its  absolute  blaze,  320 

Might  need  love's  eye  to  pierce  the  o'erstretched  doubt 

Teachers  were  busy,  whispering  •  All  is  true 

As  the  aged  ones  report :  but  youth  caii  reach 

Where  age  gropes  dimly,  weak  with  stir  and  strain, 

And  the  full  doctrine  slumbers  till  to-day.'  325 


ley 
led 
so 
ind 
^er 
illy 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 

Thus,  what  the  Roman's  lowered  spear  was  found, 

A  bar  to  me  who  touched  and  handled  truth, 

Now  proved  the  glozing  of  som.?  new  shrewd  tongue, 

This  Ebion,  this  Cerinthus  or  their  mates. 

Till  immmcnt  was  the  outcry  *  Save  our  Christ !  * 

Whereon  I  stated  much  of  the  Lord's  life 

Forgotten  or  misdelivered,  and  let  it  work. 

Such  work  done,  as  it  will  be,  what  comes  next? 

What  do  I  hear  say,  or  conceive  men  say, 

'  Was  John  at  all,  and  did  he  say  he  saw? 

Assure  us,  ere  we  ask  what  he  might  see  ! ' 

"  Is  this  indeed  a  burthen  for  late  days, 

And  may  I  help  to  bear  it  with  you  all, 

Using  my  weakness  which  becomes  your  strength? 

For  if  a  babe  were  bom  inside  this  grot. 

Grew  to  a  boy  here,  heard  us  praise  the  sun. 

Yet  had  but  yon  sole  glimmer  in  light's  place,  — 

One  loving  him  and  wishful  he  should  learn. 

Would  much  rejoice  himself  was  blinded  first 

Month  by  month  here,  so  made  to  understand 

How  eyes,  bom  darkling,  apprehend  amiss : 

I  think  I  could  explain  to  such  a  chik) 

There  was  more  glow  outside  than  gleams  he  caught, 

Ay,  nor  need  urge  '  I  saw  it,  so  believe  ! ' 

It  is  a  heavy  burthen  you  shall  bear 

In  latter  days,  new  lands,  or  old  grown  strange, 

Lefk  without  me,  which  must  be  very  soon. 


91 


330 


335 


340 


345 


350 


326-28.  Line  327  is  in  apposition  to  "what."  Supply  "to  be  "after 
"proved."  The  meaning  is  -  "  The  difficulty,  which  in  my  case  had  been  a 
material  one,  —  the  fear  of  Roman  soldiers,  —  became,  in  the  case  of  a  later 
generation,  an  intellectual  one  —  the  false  doctrines  of  heretical  teachers." 

329.  «  Ebion  " :  supposed  originator  of  the  Ebionite  heresy,  which  existed  in 
the  time  of  John,  and  consisted  in  the  denial  of  the  divinity  of  Christ,  while 
accepting  his  moral  precepts.  "Cerinthus":  flourishedgS-ii;  a.d.;  isbysome 
represented  as  a  contemporary  of  John.    He  also  denied  the  divinity  of  ChrisL 


•  ■A) 

\» 

'1 


f* 


92  CHRISTIANITY    IN    DROWNING. 

What  is  the  doubt,  my  brothers  ?    Quick  with  it ! 

I  see  you  stand  conversing,  each  new  face, 

Either  in  fields,  of  yellow  summer  eves, 

On  islets  yet  unnamed  amid  the  sea ; 

Or  pace  for  shelter  'neath  a  portico 

Out  of  the  crowd  in  some  enormous  town 

Where  now  the  larks  sing  in  a  solitude  : 

Or  muse  upon  blank  heaps  of  stone  and  sand 

Idly  conjectured  to  be  Ephesus  : 

And  no  one  asks  his  fellow  any  more 

'Where  is  the  promise  of  His  coming?'  but 

*  Was  he  revealed  in  any  of  His  lives. 

As  Power,  as  Love,  as  Influencing  Soul  ? ' 


355 


360 


365 


The  objections  are  then  stated  which  might  be  urged  by 
one  sceptical  on  these  points.  The  sceptic  of  this  gener- 
ation disregards  miracles  altogether ;  for,  even  supposing 
they  actually  took  place,  miracles  cannot  prove  the  truth 
of  doctrine.  Further,  the  objector  argues,  this  love 
which  we  ascribe  to  God  is  merely  a  fragment  of  anthro- 
pomorphism. Once  upon  a  time,  man  ascribed  all  his  own 
attributes  to  God, — his  bodily  form,  his  anger,  his  pride, 
etc.  Gradually  man's  conception  of  God  has  been  stripped 
of  all  these.  There  remain  only  the  attributes  of  power, 
will,  and  love.  Of  God's  power  we  have  ample  evidence. 
Not  so  of  his  will  and  love.  Miraculous  interference  in 
the  order  ot  the  world,  such  as,  it  is  asserted,  did  occur  in 
former  times,  would  indicate  will  and  love.  But,  as,  at 
present,  there  is  no  less  need  than  formerly  of  these 
miraculous  interferences,  and  yet  they  do  not  occur,  we 
may  safely  conclude  that  they  never  did  occur.  So  we  are 
reduced  to  the  conception  of  God  as  force,  or  natural  law. 

354-61.    Note  the  beauty  of  these  lines. 


!f 


CHRISTIANITY   IN   BROWNING. 

"  Quick,  for  time  presses,  tell  the  whole  mind  out. 
And  let  us  ask  and  answer  and  be  saved  ! 
My  book  speaks  on,  because  it  cannot  pass ; 
One  listens  quietly,  nor  scoffs  but  pleads, 
'  Here  is  a  tale  of  things  done  ages  since ; 
What  truth  was  ever  told  the  second  day? 
Wonders,  that  would  prove  doctrine,  go  for  nought 
Remains  the  doctrine,  love ;  well,  we  must  love. 
And  what  we  love  most,  power  and  love  in  one, 
Let  us  acknowledge  on  the  record  here. 
Accepting  these  in  Christ :  must  Christ  then  be? 
Has  he  been?    Did  not  we  ourselves  make  Him? 
Our  mind  receives  but  what  it  holds,  no  more. 
First  of  the  love,  then;  we  acknowledge  Christ  — 
A  proof  we  comprehend  His  love,  a  proof 
We  had  such  love  already  in  ourselves. 
Knew  first  what  else  we  should  not  recognize. 
Tis  mere  projection  fix)m  man's  inmost  mind, 
And,  what  he  loves,  thus  falls  reflected  back, 
Becomes  accounted  somewhat  out  of  him : 
He  throws  it  up  in  air,  it  drops  down  earth's. 
With  shape,  name,  story  added,  man's  old  way. 
How  prove  you  Christ  came  otherwise  at  least? 
Next  try  the  power :  He  made  and  rules  the  world : 
Certes  there  is  a  world  once  made,  now  ruled, 
Unless  things  have  been  ever  as  we  see. 
Our  sires  declared  a  charioteer's  yoked  steeds 
Brought  the  sun  up  th   east  and  down  the  west, 
Which  only  of  itself  now  rises,  sets. 
As  if  a  hand  impelled  it  and  a  will,  — 
Thus  they  long  thought,  they  who  had  will  and  hands 
But  the  new  question's  whisper  is  distinct, 
»Vherefore  must  all  force  needs  be  like  ourselves? 
We  have  the  hands,  the  will ;  what  made  and  drives 
The  sun  is  fovce,  is  law,  is  named,  not  known, 


93 


370 


375 


380 


3«5 


390 


395 


400 


94 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    DROWNING. 


■  i 


While  will  and  love  we  do  know ;  marks  of  these, 
Eye-witnesses  attest,  so  books  declare  — 
As  that,  to  punish  or  reward  our  race, 
The  sun  at  undue  times  arose  or  set 
Or  else  stood  still :  what  do  not  men  affirm  ? 
But  earth  requires  as  urgently  reward 
Or  punishment  to-day  as  years  ago, 
And  none  expects  the  sun  will  interpose : 
'  Therefore  it  was  mere  passion  and  mistake. 
Or  erring  zeal  for  right,  which  changed  the  truth. 
Go  back,  far,  farther,  to  the  birth  of  things ; 
Ever  the  will,  the  intelligence,  the  love, 
Man's  1  —  which  he  gives,  supposing  he  but  finds, 
As  late  he  gave  head,  body,  hands  and  feet. 
To  help  these  in  what  forms  he  called  his  gods. 
First,  Jove's  brow,  Juno's  eyes  were  swept  away. 
But  Jove's  wrath,  Juno's  pride  continued  long ; 
As  last,  will,  power,  and  love  discarded  these, 
So  law  in  turn  discards  power,  love,  and  will. 
What  proveth  God  is  otherwise  at  least? 
All  else,  projection  from  the  mind  of  man  ! ' 


405 


410 


415 


420 


John  proceeds  to  meet  these  objections.  Man  is  not  a  sta- 
tionary, but  a  progressive,  being.  As  soon  as  he  has  been 
enabled  to  rise  a  stage  by  means  of  certain  helps,  these 
helps  fall  away,  as  no  longer  necessary.  Miracles  were 
needful  in  order  that  Christianity  should  take  root.  But 
now  that  Christianity  exists,  and  that  we  can  see  what 
it  is,  and  what  its  fruits  are,  we  have  evidence  sufficient 
in  its  favour.  To  add  miracles  now  would  be  to  force 
belief,  to  make  lack  of  faith  impossible,  and  so  preclude 
voluntary  effort  on  the  part  of  man. 

"  Nay,  do  not  give  me  wine,  for  I  am  strong. 
But  place  my  gospel  where  I  put  my  hands* 


'!f 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


95 


4*5 


430 


435 


"  I  say  that  man  was  made  to  grow,  not  stop  ; 

That  help,  he  needed  once,  and  needs  no  more, 

Having  grown  but  an  inch  by,  is  withdrawn : 

For  he  hath  new  needs,  and  new  helps  to  these. 

This  imports  solely,  man  should  mount  on  each 

New  height  in  view ;  the  help  whereby  he  mounts, 

The  ladder-rung  his  foot  has  left,  may  fall. 

Since  all  things  suffer  change  save  God  the  Truth. 

Man  apprehends  Him  newly  at  each  stage 

Whereat  earth's  ladder  drops,  its  service  done ; 

And  nothing  shall  prove  twice  what  once  was  proved. 

You  stick  a  garden-plot  with  ordered  twigs 

To  show  inside  lie  germs  of  herbs  unborn. 

And  check  the  careless  step  would  spoil  tiieir  birth ; 

But  when  herbs  wave,  the  guardian  twigs  may  go, 

Since  should  ye  doubt  of  virtues,  question  kinds, 

It  is  no  longer  for  old  twigs  ye  look. 

Which  proved  once  underneath  lay  store  of  seed. 

But  to  the  herb's  self,  by  what  light  ye  boast. 

For  what  fruit's  signs  are.     This  book's  fruit  is  plain, 

Nor  miracles  need  prove  it  any  more. 

Doth  the  fruit  show?    Then  miracles  bade 'ware 

At  first  of  root  and  stem,  saved  both  till  now 

From  trampling  ox,  rough  boar  and  wanton  goat 

What?    Was  man  made  a  wheelwork  to  wind  up, 

And  be  discharged,  and  straight  wound  up  anew? 

No  !  —  grown,  his  growth  lasts ;  taught,  he  ne'er  forgets :  450 

May  leam  a  thousand  things,  not  twice  the  same. 


440 


445 


'  This  might  be  pagan  teaching :  now  hear  mine. 


"  I  say,  that  as  the  babe,  you  feed  awhile, 
Becomes  a  boy  and  fit  to  feed  himself, 
So,  minds  at  first  must  be  spoon-fed  with  truth  : 
When  they  can  eat,  babe's  nurture  is  withdrawn. 


455 


9« 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


n 


I  fed  the  babe  whether  it  would  or  no : 

I  bid  the  boy  or  feed  himself  or  starve. 

I  cried  once, '  That  ye  may  believe  in  Christ, 

Hehold  this  blind  man  shall  receive  his  sight  I '  460 

I  cry  now, '  Urgest  thou,/>r  /  am  shrewd 

And  smiled  at  stories  how  John's  word  would  cure  — 

Repeat  that  miracle  and  take  by  faith  f ' 

I  say,  that  miracle  was  duly  wrought 

When,  save  for  it,  no  faith  was  possible.  465 

Whether  a  change  were  wrought  i'  the  shows  o'  the  world. 

Whether  the  change  came  from  our  minds  which  see 

Of  shows  o'  the  world  so  much  as  and  no  more 

Than  God  wills  for  His  purpose,  —  (what  do  I 

See  now,  suppose  you,  there  where  you  see  rock  470 

Round  us?)  —  I  know  not ;  such  was  the  effect. 

So  faith  grew,  making  void  more  miracles 

Because  too  much :  they  would  compel,  not  help. 

I  say,  the  acknowledgment  of  God  in  Christ 

Accepted  by  thy  reason,  solves  for  thee  475 

All  questions  in  the  earth  and  out  of  it. 

And  has  so  far  advanced  thee  to  be  wise. 

Wouldst  thou  unprove  this  to  re-prove  the  proved  ? 

In  life's  mere  minute,  with  power  to  use  that  proof. 

Leave  knowledge  and  revert  to  how  it  sprung  ?  480 

Thou  hast  it ;  use  it  and  forthwith,  or  die  ! 

The  last  eight  lines  (474-81)  should  be  especially  noted. 
They  contain  what  Browning  presents  .as  the  real  ground 
for  our  acceptance  of  Christianity. 

John  goes  on  to  state  that  when  man  is  in  absolute  need 
of  help,  divine  assistance  always  steps  in.  By  miraculous 
power  God  showed  man  that  a  will  did  exist  behind  the 
forces  of  nature,  and  again  in  a  miraculous  way  he  made 
manifest  in  Christ  that  he  was  a  God  of  love.  But  now 
that  this  conception  of  the  union  of  will  with  force  has 


CIIKISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


97 


485 


been  given  to  man,  it  no  longer  needs  external  testimony, 
—  it  approves  itself.  What  need  of  going  back  to  investi- 
gate whether  this  true  conception  may  not  have  arisen  on 
false  grounds!  And  when  man  rejects  this  conception 
(as  the  supposed  objector  has  done),  simply  because  he 
finds  that  same  union  of  will  and  force  in  himself,  he  rejects 
a  truth,  not  from  lack,  but  from  excess,  of  evidence.  Again, 
now  that  he  finds  the  conception  of  God  manifesting  him- 
self as  love  in  Christ,  an  all-satisfying  one  for  tKe  needs  of 
his  own  soul,  and  yet  on  that  very  account  rejec '  it,  he 
may  be  said  to  die  spiritually. 

"  For  I  say,  this  is  death,  and  the  sole  death, 

When     »  r  a's  loss  comes  to  him  from  his  gain, 

Darkness  from  light,  from  knowledge  ignorance, 

xxnd  lack  of  love  from  love  made  manifest ; 

A  lamp's  death  when,  replete  with  oil,  it  chokes ; 

A  stomach's  when,  surcharged  with  food,  it  starves. 

With  ignorance  was  surety  of  a  cure. 

When  man,  appalled  at  nature,  tiuestioned  first, 

'  What  if  there  lurk  a  might  behind  this  might  ? ' 

He  needed  satisfaction  God  could  give. 

And  did  give,  as  ye  have  the  written  word : 

But  when  he  finds  might  still  redouble  might, 

Yet  asks,  'Since  all  is  might,  what- use  of  will?' 

—  Will,  the  one  source  of  might,  —  he  being  man 

With  a  man's  will  and  a  man's  might,  to  teach 

In  little  how  the  two  combine  in  large,  — 

That  man  has  turned  round  on  himself  and  stands, 

Which  in*  the  course  of  nature  is,  to  die. 

"And  when  man  questioned, '  What  if  there  be  love 

Behind  the  will  and  might,  as  real  as  they  ? ' 

He  needed  satisfaction  God  could  give. 
And  did  give,  as  ye  have  the  written  word  : 


490 


495 


500 


98 


CHRI.TIANITV    IN   BROWNING. 


*^   ■» 


But  when,  beholding  that  love  everywhere, 

He  reasons, '  Since  such  love  is  everywhere,  505 

And  since  ourselves  can  love  and  would  be  loved, 

We  ourselves  make  the  love,  and  Christ  was  not,'  — 

How  shall  ye  help  this  man  who  knows  himself. 

That  he  must  love  and  would  be  loved  again. 

Yet,  owning  his  own  love  that  proveth  Christ,  510 

Rejecteth  Christ  through  very  need  of  Him  ? 

The  lamp  o'erswims  with  oil,  the  stomach  flags 

Loaded  with  nurture,  and  that  roan's  soul  dies. 

The  sceptic  is  now  supposed  to  advance  another  objection. 
He  says  the  responsibility  for  the  rejection  of  this  truth, 
if  tryth  it  be,  does  not  lie  upon  us,  but  upon  the  manner 
in  which  it  was  communicated  to  us.  The  truth  of  Chris- 
tianity has  been  imparted  to  us,  bound  up  with  external 
facts  which  are  not  true,  or  at  least  cannot  be  proved.  In 
rejecting  the  one,  we  are  led  to  reject  the  other.  Why 
was  not  unmingled,  absolute  truth  imparted  at  first  ? 


"  If  he  rejoin, '  But  this  was  all  the  while 

A  trick ;  the  fault  was,  first  of  all,  in  thee,  515 

Thy  story  of  the  places,  names  and  dates, 

Where,  when  and  how  the  ultimate  truth  had  rise, 

— Thy  prior  truth,  at  last  discovered  none. 

Whence  now  the  second  sufliers  detriment. 

What  good  of  giving  knowledge  if,  because  520 

O'  the  manner  of  the  gift,  its  profit  fail? 

And  why  refuse  what  modicum  of  help 

Had  stopped  the  afler-doubt,  impossible 

r  the  face  of  truth  —  truth  absolute,  uniform? 

Why  must  I  hit  of  this  and  miss  of  that,  525 

Distinguish  just  as  I  be  weak  or  strong. 

And  not  ask  of  thee  and  have  answer  prompt. 

Was  this  once,  was  it  not  once  ?  —  then  and  now 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


99 


And  evermore,  plain  truth  from  man  to  man. 

Is  John's  procedure  just  the  heathen  bard's?  530 

Put  question  of  his  famous  play  again 

How  for  the  ephemerals'  sake,  Jove's  fire  was  filched, 

And  carried  in  a  cane  and  brought  to  earth : 

The  fact  is  in  the  fable,  cry  the  wise, 

Mortals  obtained  the  boon,  so  much  is  fact,  535 

Though  fire  be  spirit  and  produced  on  earth. 

As  with  the  Titan's,  so  now  with  thy  tale  : 

Why  breed  in  us  perplexity,  mistake. 

Nor  tell  the  whole  truth  in  the  proper  words  ? ' 

John  answers  that  gradual  approximation  to  truth  through 
partial  error,  is  the  necessary  result  of  the  constitution  of 
man,  who  is  an  imperfect  and  progressive  being.  If, 
indeed,  one  reduces  God  to  mere  force,  or  law,  then 
man,  inasmuch  as  he  combines  love  and  will  with  force, 
must  be  a  higher  nature,  —  must,  indeed,  himself  be  God, 
and  may  claim  perfection,  not  progress. 

"  I  answer.  Have  ye  yet  to  argue  out  540 

The  very  primal  thesis,  plainest  law, 

—  Man  is  not  God  but  hath  God's  end  to  serve, 

A  master  to  obey,  a  course  to  take, 

Somewhat  to  cast  off,  somewhat  to  bt:come  ? 

Grant  this,  then  man  must  pass  from  old  to  new,  545 

From  vain  to  real,  from  mistake  to  fact. 

From  what  once  seemed  good,  to  what  now  proves  best 

How  could  man  have  progression  otherwise  ? 

Before  the  point  was  mooted  '  What  is  God  ? ' 

No  savage  man  inquired  '  What  am  myself? '  550 

Much  less  replied, '  First,  last,  and  best  of  things.' 

Man  takes  that  title  now  if  he  believes 

Might  can  exist  with  neither  will  nor  love, 

In  God's  case  —  what  he  names  now  Nature's  Law  — 


ICX) 


CHRISTIANITY   IN    BROWNING. 


u 


I. 
1*E 


•w 


While  in  himself  he  recognizes  love  555 

No  less  than  might  and  will :  and  rightly  takes. 

Since  if  man  prove  the  sole  existent  thirg 

Where  these  combine,  whatever  their  degree, 

However  weak  the  might  or  will  or  love, 

So  they  be  found  there,  put  in  evidence,  —  560 

He  is  as  surely  higher  in  the  scale 

Than  any  might  with  neither  love  nor  will, 

As  life,  apparent  in  the  poorest  midge, 

(When  the  faint  dust-speck  flits,  ye  guess  its  wing,) 

Is  marvellous  beyond  dead  Atlas'  self —  565 

Given  to  the  nobler  midge  for  resting-place  ! 

Thus,  man  proves  best  and  highest  —  God,  in  fine. 

And  thus  the  victory  leads  but  to  defeat, 

The  gain  to  loss,  best  rise  to  the  worst  fall, 

His  life  becomes  impossible,  which  is  death.  570 


But  if  man  admits  his  own  imperfections  and  the  per- 
fection oi  God,  he  cannot  expect  to  know  at  first  what 
he  knows  later.  His  knowledge  will  ever  grow.  His  con- 
ceptions of  truth  will  always  have  something  of  false 
mingled  with  them,  but  will  gradually  approximate  more 
and  more  to  absolute  truth.  To  seize  the  ultimate  at  once 
is  the  prerogative  of  God  alone. 


"  But  if,  appealing  thence,  he  cower,  avouch 

He  is  mere  man,  and  in  humility 

Neither  may  know  God  nor  mistake  himself; 

I  point  to  the  immediate  consequence 

And  say,  by  such  confession  straight  he  falls 

Into  man's  place,  a  thing  nor  God  nor  beast, 

Made  to  know  that  he  can  know  and  not  more : 


575 


571-633  should  be  carefully  studied,  as  they  contain  the  substance  of 
Browning's  conception  of  man,  bis  nature  and  aim. 


CHRISTIANITY   IN    BROWNING. 


lOI 


Lower  than  God  who  knows  all  and  can  all, 

Higher  than  beasts  which  know  and  can  so  far 

As  each  beast's  limit,  perfect  to  an  end,  eg© 

Nor  conscious  that  they  know,  nor  craving  more ; 

While  man  knows  partly  but  conceives  beside, 

Creeps  ever  on  from  fancies  to  the  fact, 

And  in  this  striving,  this  converting  air 

Into  a  solid  he  may  grasp  and  use,  585 

Finds  progress,  man's  distinctive  mark  alone. 

Not  God's,  and  not  the  beasts' :  God  is,  they  are, 

Man  partly  is  and  wholly  hopes  to  be. 

Such  progress  could  no  more  attend  his  soul 

Were  all  its  struggles  after  found  at  first  590 

And  guesses  changed  to  knowledge  absolute. 

Than  motion  wait  his  body,  were  all  else 

Than  it  the  solid  earth  on  every  side. 

Where  now  through  space  he  moves  from  rest  to  rest 

Man,  therefore,  thus  conditioned,  must  expect  595 

He  could  not,  what  he  knows  now,  know  at  first ; 

What  he  considers  that  he  knows  to-day, 

Come  but  to-morrow,  he  will  find  misknown ; 

Getting  increase  of  knowledge,  since  he  learns 

Because  he  lives,  which  is  to  be  a  man,  600 

Set  to  instruct  himself  by  his  past  self: 

First,  like  the  brute,  obliged  by  facts  to  learn, 

Next,  as  man  may,  obliged  by  his  own  mind. 

Bent,  habit,  nature,  knowledge  turned  to  law. 

God's  gift  was  that  man  should  conceive  of  truth  605 

And  yearn  to  gain  it,  catching  at  mistake. 

As  midway  help  till  he  reach  fact  indeed. 

The  statuary  ere  he  mould  a  shape 

Boasts  a  like  gift,  the  shape's  idea,  and  next 

The  aspiration  to  produce  the  same ;  610 

So,  taking  clay,  he  calls  his  shape  thereout. 

Cries  ever  '  Now  I  have  the  thing  I  see ' : 


■«■ 
,.1 


.vtm 

1  <ri4 


I02 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


•us 

\0 


Yet  all  the  while  goes  changing  what  was  wrought, 

From  falsehood  like  the  truth,  to  truth  itself. 

How  were  it  had  he  cried, '  I  see  no  face,  615 

No  breast,  no  feet  i'  the  ineffectual  clay '  ? 

Rather  commend  him  that  he  clapped  his  hands, 

And  laughed  '  It  is  my  shape  and  lives  again  ! ' 

Enjoyed  the  falsehood,  touched  it  on  to  truth, 

Until  yourselves  applaud  the  flesh  indeed  620 

In  what  is  still  flesh-imitating  clay. 

Right  in  you,  right  in  him,  such  way  be  man's  ! 

God  only  makes  the  live  shape  at  a  jet. 

Will  ye  renounce  this  pact  of  creatureship  ? 

The  pattern  on  the  Mount  subsists  no  more,  625 

Seemed  awhile,  then  returned  to  nothingness ; 

But  copies,  Moses  strove  to  make  thereby, 

Serve  still  and  are  replaced  as  time  requires : 

By  these,  make  newest  vessels  reach  the  type  ! 

If  ye  demur,  this  judgment  on  your  head,  630 

Never  to  reach  the  ultimate,  angels'  law. 

Indulging  every  instinct  of  the  soul 

There  where  law,  life,  joy,  impulse  are  one  thing  ! 

"  Such  is  the  burthen  of  the  latest  time. 

I  have  survived  to  hear  it  with  my  ears,  635 

Answer  it  with  my  lips :  does  this  suffice  ? 

For  if  there  be  a  further  woe  than  such, 

Wherein  my  brothers  struggling  need  a  hand, 

Sk)  long  as  any  pulse  is  left  in  mine, 

May  I  be  absent  even  longer  yet,  640 

Plucking  the  blind  ones  back  from  the  abyss. 

Though  I  should  tarry  a  new  hundred  years  ! " 

But  he  was  dead :  'twas  about  noon,  the  day 

Somewhat  declining :  we  Ave  buried  him 

That  eve,  and  then,  dividing,  went  five  ways,  645 

And  I,  disguised,  returned  to  Ephesus. 


CHRISTIANITY   IN   BROWNING. 


103 


By  this,  the  cave's  mouth  must  be  filled  with  sand. 

Valens  is  lost,  I  know  not  of  his  trace ; 

The  Bactrian  was  but  a  wild  childish  man. 

And  could  not  write  nor  speak,  but  only  loved :  650 

So,  lest  the  memory  of  this  go  quite, 

Seeing  that  I  to-morrow  fight  the  beasts, 

I  tell  the  same  to  Phoebas,  wh6m  believe  ! 

For  many  look  again  to  find  that  face. 

Beloved  John's  to  whom  I  ministered,  655 

Somewhere  in  life  about  the  world ;  they  err : 

Either  mistaking  what  was  darkly  spoke 

At  ending  of  his  book,  as  he  relates. 

Or  misconceiving  somewhat  of  this  speech 

Scattered  from  mouth  to  mouth,  as  I  suppose.  660 

Believe  ye  will  not  see  him  any  more 

About  the  world  with  his  divine  regard  ! 

For  all  was  as  I  say,  and  now  the  man 

Lies  as  he  lay  once,  breast  to  breast  with  God. 

Here  the  poem  really  closes,  but  there  is  added  a  post- 
script written  not  by  Pamphylax,  but  by  some  early  Chris- 
tian in  his  name,  and  directed  against  Cerinthus  {vide  note 
on  1.  329).  Christ  must  be  accepted  as  divine,  or  else  his 
doctrine  altogether  fails.  For  it  was  Christ's  aim  to  draw 
out  the  love  of  man  to  its  full  extent,  and  to  satisfy  it. 
That  none  but  a  divine  being  can  do.»  Here  again 
Browning  is  covertly  meeting  a  tendency  of  our  own  age. 

'  Compare  the  words  of  the  Poet  at  the  death  of  SordcUo,  p.  278:  — 

Of  a  Power  above  you  still 
Which,  utterly  incomprehensible, 
Is  out  of  rivalry,  which  thus  you  can 
Love,  tho'  unloving  all  conceived  by  man  — 
What  need !    And  of—  none  the  minutest  duct 
To  that  out  nature,  naught  that  would  instruct. 
And  so  let  rivalry  begin  to  live  — 


•I 


4^ 

.'MA 


104 


CHRISTIANITY   IN   BROWNING. 


t! 


It'll 


c 


i»Q 


[Cerinthus  read  and  mused ;  one  added  this :  665 

"  If  Christ,  as  thou  affirmest,  be  of  men 

Mere  man,  the  first  and  best  but  nothing  more,  — 

Account  Him,  for  reward  of  what  He  was. 

Now  and  forever,  wretchedest  of  all. 

For  see ;  Himself  conceived  of  life  as  love,  670 

Conceived  of  love  as  what  must  enter  in, 

Fill  up,  make  one  with  His  each  soul  He  loved : 

Thus  much  for  man's  joy,  all  men's  joy  for  Him. 

Well,  He  is  gone,  thou  sayest,  to  fit  reward. 

But  by  this  time  are  many  souls  set  free, '  675 

And  very  many  still  retained  alive : 

Nay,  should  His  coming  be  delayed  awhile. 

Say,  ten  years  longer  (twelve  years,  some  compute). 

See,  if,  for  every  finger  of  thy  hands. 

There  be  not  found,  that  day  the  world  shall  end,  680 

Hundreds  of  souls,  each  holding  by  Christ's  word 

That  He  will  grow  incorporate  with  all. 

With  me  as  Pamphylax,  with  him  as  John, 

Groom  for  each  bride  !    Can  a  mere  man  do  this  ? 

Yet  Christ  saith,  this  He  lived  and  died  to  do.  685 

Call  Christ,  then,  the  illimitable  God,  ' 

Or  lost ! " 

But  'twas  Cerinthus  that  is  lost.] 

It  will  be  noted  that  John  throughout  makes  assumptions, 
so  that  his  argument  is  not  such  as  to  force  conviction  01^. 
a  thorough  sceptic.     Browning  does  not  believe  that  the 

But  of  a  Power,  its  representative, 

Who  being  for  authority  the  same, 

Communication  different,  should  claim 

A  course,  the  first  chose  and  the  last  revealed  — 

This  human  cleai,  as  that  Divine  concealed  — 

What  utter  need  I 

For  the  subttantial  meaning  o(  this  somewhat  difficult  passage,  see  Analysis 
of  Sordello. 


ky 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


los 


IS, 

on 
le 


SIS 


highest  truths  are  susceptible  of  demonstration  in  accord- 
ance with  the  laws  of  logic.  He  is  a  transcendentalist, 
as  we  have  said,  and  finds  the  fountain  of  truth  within 
man.  The  highest  certainty  arises  not  from  logical  demon- 
stration, but  from  the  assent  of  the  spiritual  instinct  for 
truth  and  good,  with  which  man  is  endowed.  This  poem 
merely  presents  Christianity  in  such  an  aspect  as  will 
correspond,  in  Browning's  opinion,  to  the  needs  of  that 
instinct. 

This  emphasis  on  the  inner  meaning,  rather  than  on  the 
outer  facts  of  Christianity,  —  on  its  power  as  exhibited 
now  in  the  life  of  the  soul,  rather  than  in  the  past  on  the 
life  of  the  body,  —  is  in  keeping  with  all  we  have  seen  of 
Browning's  habits  of  thought.  He  does  not,  however,  as 
is  indicated  in  the  postscript  to  A  'Death  in  the  Desert, 
find  satisfactory  those  rationalistic  explanations  which  do 
away  with  the  divine  in  Jesus,  and  leave  him  merely  a 
great  teacher  of  moral  truth,  an  exemplar  of  the  highest 
conduct.  Such  a  theory  preserves  only  the  husk,  and 
throws  away  the  grain.  Man's  need  is  not  for  a  teacher 
of  moral  truth.  Man's  knowledge  of  right  and  truth  has 
always  far  surpassed  his  power  of  putting  them  in  practice. 
What  he  requires,  then,  is  not  a  further  revelation  of  what 
is  right,  but  some  motive  which  will  enable  him  to  live  up 
to  what  he  already  knows.  This  he  finds  in  the  love  of 
God  manifest  in  the  flesh.  God  is  too  inconceivable,  too 
remote,  to  awaken  sufficiently  our  capacity  for  love ;  but  as 
Christ  He  comes  within  the  range  of  our  conception  and 
sympathy.  In  Christ  we  have  at  once  the  proof  of  the 
infinity  of  Divine  love,  and  an  object  fitted  to  kindle  that 
love  and  to  receive  its  return.  This  subject  will  be  found 
treated  by  the  speaker  in  Christmas  Eve  [Sections  xvi. 
and  XVII.].     The  concluding  passage  is  here  quoted. 


io6 


CHRISTIANITY   IN   BROWNING. 


,)■    I'* 
I-* 


Whom  do  you  count  the  worst  man  on  earth? 

Be  sure,  he  knows,  in  his  conscience  more 

Of  what  right  is,  than  arrives  at  birth ' 

In  the  best  man's  acts  that  we  bow  before : 

This  last  knoivs  better  —  true,  but  my  fact  is, 

'Tis  one  thing  to  know,  and  another  to  practise. 

And  thence  I  conclude  that  the  real  God-function 

Is  to  furnish  a  motive  and  injunction 

For  practising  what  we  know  already. 

And  such  an  injunction  and  such  a  motive 

As  the  God  in  Christ  do  you  waive,  and  "  heady, 

High-minded,"  hang  your  tablet-votive 

Outside  the  fane  on  a  finger-post? 

Moralty  to  the  uttermost, 

Supreme  in  Christ  as  we  all  confess, 

Why  need  we  prove  would  avail  no  jot 

To  make  Him  God,  if  God  He  were  not? 

Does  the  precept  run  "  Believe  in  Good, 

In  Justice,  Truth,  now  understood 

For  the  first  time  "?  —  or,  "Believe  in  me, 

Who  lived  and  died,  yet  essentially, 

Am  Lord  of  Life  "  ?    Whoever  can  take 

The  same  to  his  heart  and  for  mere  love's  sake 

Conceive  of  the  love,  —  that  man  obtains 

A  new  truth ;  no  conviction  gains 

Of  an  old  one  only,  made  intense 

By  a  fresh  appeal  to  his  faded  sense. 


Browning  is  a  man  who,  whether  he  sympathizes  with 
them  or  not,  is  fully  conversant  with  the  tendencies  of  the 
age.  He  knows  well  the  doubts  and  difficulties  which  sur- 
round the  acceptance  of  Christianity.  The  form  in  which 
he  presents  Christianity,  meeting,  as  it  does,  many  of 


1  "  Arrives  at  birth  " :  is  realized. 


CHRISTIANITY    IN    BROWNING. 


107 


these,  shows  this.  But  that  they  still  exist,  and  will  in 
one  form  or  another  ever  exist,  he  does  not  deny.  In  fact, 
their  existence  is  in  perfect  harmony  with  those  general 
conceptions  of  his.  outlined  in  the  last  chapter.  This  life, 
is  one  of  probation  and  struggle ;  it  is  thus  that  the  soul 
receives  the  requisite  disciplinje.  Christian  belief  is  not  a 
pEitform  which,  once  attained,  the  soul  may  rest  sluggish 
and  unprogressive.  Life  is  a  mountaiii  steep  on  whose 
precipitous  incline  the  soul  clambers  upward,  finding  suffi- 
cient but  precarious  foothold  now  here,  now  there.  The 
rock  which  gave  it  support  falls  away  as  the  foot  leaves  it. 
Every  muscle  must  be  strained,  every  energy  exerted; 
there  is  no  place  for  rest ;  but  clambering  ever  heaven- 
ward, the  soul  at  length  passes  from  sight  through  the 
clouds  of  death  to  a  higher  zone.  Christianity  afifords  the 
motive  and  strength  to  climb,  —  does  not  smooth  the  way. 
.  In  Easter  Day,  accordingly,  is  shown  how  difficulty  not 
only  surrounds  the  first  acceptance  of  Christianity,  but 
attends  every  stage  of  the  Christian  life.  No  matter,  how- 
ever, what  the  difficulties,  the  truth  we  attain  must  be 
held  with  supreme  conviction.  Nothing  is  more  repug- 
nant to  Browning's  temperament  than  half-hearted  belief, 
or  belief  which  depends  on  interested  motives.  Such  a 
spirit  is  exhibited  in  that  masterly  piece  of  portraiture  and 
sophism.  The  Apology  of  Bishop  Blougram.  Blougram  is 
a  Christian  because  he  thinks  that  perhaps  on  the  whole 
probabilities  are  in  favor  of  the  truth  of  Christianity,  and 
because  faith  is  more  profitable  than  unbelief  in  this  world, 
and,  at  worst,  cannot  injure  one's  prospects  in  the  next. 
The  failings  of  blind  enthusiasm  Browning  easily  pardons, 
but  this  temperament  which  follows  the  dictates  of  cold 
prudence,  and  grasps  what  it  grasps  with  slack  hold,  is 
abhorrent  to  him.     And  so,  while  in  Christmas  Eve  is 


% 


io8 


CHRISTIANITY   IN   BROWNING. 


shown  the  good  inherent  in  each  form  of  belief,  ~  whether 
masked  by  the  vulgarity  and  crass  ignorance  of  the  dis- 
senting chapel,  or  the  materialism  and  formalism  of  St. 
Peter's,  or  the  superficial  intellectualism  of  a  German  uni- 
versity ;  yet  we  are  warned  against  the  indifferentism  and 
coldness  to  which  such  toleration  is  apt  to  lead.  It  is  the 
duty  of  each  man  to  search  out  with  all  earnestness  what 
is  t-uth  to  him,  and,  when  found,  cling  to  it  with  all  the 
energy  of  which  his  nature  is  capable. 


THEORY  OF  ART. 


109 


sther 
:  dis- 
f  St. 
I  uni- 
I  and 
s  the 
what 
1  the 


CHAPTER   IV. 

BROWNING'S  THEORY  OP  ART. 

When  Homer  (did  such  a  person  ever  exist)  wrote  the 
Iliad,  he  wrote  it  in  accordance  with  an  unformulated  and 
unconscious  standard  of  what  was  fitting  and  beautiful, 
with  an  instinctive  perception  of  what  would  please  and 
interest  his  hearers.  We  may  be  sure  that  he  never  ana- 
lyzed this  work  of  his,  inquired  why  he  wrote  so,  and  not 
otherwise.  But  in  the  course  of  ages  the  world  has  grown 
so  introspective  and  artificial  that,  at  the  present  day,  crea- 
tive work  can  scarcely  be  wholly  unconscious.  At  least 
we  may  be  certain  that  a  man  of  Browning's  analytic  and 
metaphysical  bent  has  not  left  the  workings  of  his  own 
mind  unprobed ;  that  he  knows  his  aims ;  that  he  has  ex- 
amined the  principles  of  his  work ;  that  he  has,  in  short, 
a  theory  of  art.  This,  however,  is  not  a  mere  matter  of 
inference ;  the  theory  and  practice  of  plastic  and  literary 
art  are  subjects  not  infrequently  discussed  in  his  poetry, 
although,  of  course,  the  discussion  is  usually  not  direct, 
but  dramatic.  Moreover,  in  a  prose  essay  on  Shelley, 
Browning  has  unfolded  some  of  his  ideas  on  the  functions 
of  the  poet.  In  the  present  chapter  a  conspectus  of 
Browning's  theory  of  art  is  given  which  is  based  upon 
this  material.  The  subject  is  an  especially  interesting 
one,  from  the  light  that  it  throws  upon  Browning's  own 
poetry  and  the  peculiarities  of  his  style. 

In  the  opinions  and  principles  regarding  art  enunciated 
or  discernible  in  Browning's  works,  one  traces  everywhere 
the  influence  of  his  favorite  ideas, — that  spiritual  discipline 


,  1 


no 


THEORY   OF    ART. 


'UK 
I* 


and  consequent  growth  are  the  proper  object  and  end  of 
the  existing  system  of  things ;  that  imperfection  is  a  nec- 
essary and  beneficial  attribute  of  our  present  sphere ;  that 
here  truth,  beauty,  goodness,  are  but  relative,  —  dim  and 
imperfect  images  that  serve  to  kindle  our  aspirations  and 
lead  them  upwards  towards  the  absolute.  In  short.  Brown- 
ing's theory  of  art  is  merely  those  fundamental  principles 
of  his,  with  which  we  are  already  acquainted,  applied  in  a 
new  sphere. 

In  the  first  place,  in  harmony  with  all  his  teachings,  he 
judges  works  of  art,  not  as  independent  objects,  but  in 
relation  to  spiritual  development,  —  on  the  one  hand  as  a 
means  and  index  of  progress  in  the  creative  soul  that 
has  produced  them ;  on  the  other,  as  a  help  to  the  clearer 
appreciation  of  truth  and  beauty  by  those  who  are  less  highly 
endowed.  Here,  in  a  way  analogous  to  that  in  which  he 
regards  human  life,  Browning  looks  through  the  body  of  the 
picture  or  poem,  —  its  technical  execution,  to  its  spirit,  — 
the  aim  that  the  artist  had  in  producing  it,  and  the  nature 
of  the  truth  that  it  embodies.  If  these  be  lofty,  even 
though  inadequately  realized,  he  holds  that  the  work  sur- 
passes even  the  most  perfect  embodiments  of  lower  con- 
ceptions. •'  In  the  hierarchy  of  creative  minds,"  says  his 
Essay  on  Shelley,  "  it  is  the  presence  of  the  highest  faculty 
that  gives  first  rank,  in  virtue  of  kind,  not  degree ;  no  pre- 
tension of  a  lower  nature,  whatever  the  completeness  of 
development  or  variety  of  effect,  impeding  the  precedency 
of  the  rarer  endowment,  though  only  in  the  germ."  So, 
for  example,  in  the  development  of  plastic  art,  he  is  by  no 
means  disposed  to  treat  with  scorn  the  feeble  attempts  of 
the  earliest  Christian  painters,  when  brought  into  com- 
parison with  the  masterpieces  of  Greek  sculpture.  Greek 
art,  indeed,  may  have  perfectly  attained  its  end,  the  por- 


THEORY   OF   ART.  m 

trayal  of  physical  beauty;  but  Christian  art  attempts 
something  higher,  — the  portrayal  of  man.  not  as  body 
merely,  but  also  as  soul ;  and  hence,  though  in  execution 
so  mfenor,  even  the  beginnings  of  Christian  art  must  be 
held  as  ranking  higher  than  the  work  of  Phidias.  Turning 
to  Old  Pictures  in  Fionnce,  we  find  this  thesis  maintained. 

XI. 

"  If  you  knew  their  work  you  would  deal  your  dole." 

May  I  take  upon  me  to  instruct  you  ? 
When  Greek  art  ran  and  reached  the  goal, 

Thus  mi,    i  had  the  world  to  boast /«/; //<■/>/_  ^c' 

The  truth  of  man,  as  by  God  first  spoken 

Which  the  actual  generations  garble 
Was  reuttered,  — and  Soul  (which  Limbs -betoken) 

And  Limbs  (Soul  informs)  were  made  new  in  marble. 

xn. 

So,  you  saw  yourself  as  you  wished  you  were, 

As  you  might  have  been,  as  you  cannot  be  j 
Earth  here,  rebuked  by  Olympus  there  : 

And  grew  content  in  your  poor  degree 
With  your  little  power,  by  those  statues'  godhead, 

And  your  little  scope,  by  their  eyes'  full  sway 
And  your  little  grace,  by  their  grace  embodied, 

And  your  little  date,  by  their  forms  that  stay. 

xm. 
You  would  fain  be  kinglier,  say  than  I  am? 

Even  so,  you  will  not  sit  like  Theseus. 
You'd  fain  be  a  model?    The  son  of  Priani 

Has  yet  the  advantage  in  arms'  and  knees'  use. 
You're  wroth  —can  you  slay  your  snake  like  Apollo 

You're  grieved,  —  still  Niobe's  the  grander  » 
You  live  — there's  the  Racers'  frieze  to  follow  — 

You  die  — there's  the  dying  Alexander. 


\^ 


113 


THEORY  OF  ART. 


I- 


UC 


M*) 


XIV. 

So,  testing  your  weakness  by  their  strength, 

Your  meagre  charms  by  their  rounded  beauty, 
Measured  by  Art  in  your  breadth  and  length, 

You  learn  —  to  submit  is  a  mortal's  duty. 
—  When  Isay"you"  'tis  the  Common  soul, 

The  collective  I  mean  —  the  race  of  man 
That  receives  Fife  m  parts  to  live  in  a  whole. 

And  grow  here  accorSingToGod's  own  plan. 

XV. 

Growth  came  when,  looking  your  last  on  them  all, 

You  turned  your  eyes  inwardly  one  fine  day. 
And  cried  with  a  start  —  What  if  we  so  small 

fie  greater  and  grander  the  while  than  they  I 
Are  they  perfect  of  lineament,  perfect  of  stature? 

In  both,  of  such  lower  types  are  we 
Precisely  because  of  our  wider  nature ;  • 

For  time,  theirs  —  ours,  for  eternity. 

XVI. 

To-day's  brief  passion  limits  their  range, 

It  seethes  with  the  morrow  for  us  and  more. 
They  are  perfect  —  how  else  ?  they  shall  never  change. 

We  are  faulty  —  why  not?  we  have  time  in  store. 
The  Artificer's  hand  is  not  arrested 

With  us  — we  are  rough-hewn,  nowise  polished : 
They  stand  for  our  copy,  and,  once  invested 

With  all  they  can  teach,  we  shall  see  them  abolished. 


xvn. 


'Tis  a  life-long  toil  till  our  lump  be  leaven  — 
The  better !    What's  come  to  perfection  perishes. 

Things  learned  on  earth,  we  shall  practise  in  heaven. 
Works  done  least  rapidly,  Art  most  cherishes. 


THEORY   OF   ART. 

Thyself  shall  afford  the  example,  Giotto  ! 

Thy  one  work  not  to  decrease  or  diminish. 
Done  at  a  stroke,  was  just  (was  it  not  ?)  "  O  " ' 

Thy  great  Campanile  is  still  to  finish. 

xvin. 
Is  it  true,  we  are  now,  and  shall  be  hereafter. 

And  what  and  where  depend  on  life's  minute  ? 
Hails  heavenly  cheer  or  infernal  laughter 

Our  first  step  out  of  the  gulf  or  in  it  ? 
And  man,  this  step  within  his  endeavor. 

His  face,  have  no  more  play  and  action 
Than  joy  which  is  crystallized  forever. 

Or  grief,  an  eternal  petrifaction  ! 


"3 


^w9 


XK. 

On  which  I  conclude,  that  the  early  painters 

To  cries  of  "  Greek  Art  and  what  more  wish  you?"— 
Replied,  "  Become  now  ^If-acquainters, 

And  paint  man,  man,  —  whatever  the  issue  I 
Make  the  hopes  shine  through  the  flesh  they  fray. 

New  fears  aggrandize  the  rags  and  tatters  : 
To  bring  the  invisible  full  into  play  ! 

Let  visible  go  to  the  dogs  — what  matters?" 

XX. 

Give  these,  I  exhort  you,  their  guerdon  and  glory 

For  daring  so  much,  before  they  well  did  it. 
The  first  of  the  new,  in  our  race's  story, 

Beats  the  last  of  the  old,  'tis  no  idle  quiddit. 
The  worthies  began  a  revolution 

Which  if  on  f  arth  we  intend  to  acknowledge 
Honor  them  new  !  (ends  my  allocution) 

Nor  confer  our  degree  when  the  folks  leave  college. 

1  This  refers  to  a  story  told  of  Giotto  by  Vasari.  He  proved  his  skill  to  one 
of  the  Popes  by  the  perfection  with  which  he  drew  a  circle  with  one  sweep  of 
the  hand.  *^ 


-^1 


* 


114 


THEORY   OF   ART. 


I,'' 
I. 


In  Browning's  conception,  the  artist  is  not  merely  one 
who,  through  his  skill  in  reproducing  nature,  has  the  power 
of  affording  pleasure  to  his  fellow-men.  The  true  artist 
has  a  higher  endowment  and  function.  He  is  one  in  whom 
the  imperfect  shows  of  the  world  awaken  a  more  adequate 
reminiscence,  as  Plato  would  say,  — premonition  would 
perhaps  suit  Browning  better,  —  of  absolute  truth  and 
beauty.  He  is,  further,  gifted  with  the  power  of  repro- 
ducing, more  or  less  successfully,  —  whether  in  marble  or 
colors  or  music  or  language,  —  these  anticipations  of  the 
divine  idea,  so  as  to  stimulate  the  less  penetrating  vision 
of  ordinary  men  to  a  more  perfect  perception  of  the  abso> 
hitc    As  we  have  it  in  Ftfiw  (§  xliv.) : — 

.  .  .  Art,  which  I  may  style  the  rage 
Of  knowing,  seeing,  feeling  the  absolute  truth  of  things 
For  truth's  sake,  whole  and  sole,  nor  any  good  truth  brings 
The  knower,  seer,  feeler  beside,  —  instinctive  art, 
Must  fumble  for  the  whole,  once  fixing  on  a  part, 
However  poor,  surpass  the  fragment,  and  aspire 
To  reconstract  thereby  the  ultimate  entire. 
Art,  working  with  a  will,  discards  the  superflux, 
Contributes  to  defect,  toiL  on,  till — yfa/  /ux  — 
There's  the  restored,  the  prime,  the  individual  type ! 

This  function  of  arousing  the  sluggish  mind  to  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Divine  in  the  world,  belongs  even  to  the  least 
idealistic  art.  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  one  of  the  Florentine 
painters  who  led  the  reaction  against  the  idealism  of  Fra 
Angelico,  is,  in  the  poem  named  after  him,  made  to  defend 
the  naturalism  and  realism  of  his  art  in  the  following 
way :  — 

—  The  beauty  and  the  wonder  and  the  power, 

The  shapes  of  things,  their  colors,  lights,  and  shades. 


>ne 
^er 
ist 
Dm 
ite 
jld 
nd 
ro- 
or 
he 
ion 
so- 


es- 
ist 
ne 
'ra 
nd 


THEORY   OF   ART. 

Changes,  surprises,  —  and  God  made  it  all ! 

— •  For  what  ?    Do  you  feel  thankful,  ay  or  no. 

For  this  fair  town's  face,  yonder  river's  line. 

The  mountain  round  it  and  the  sky  above. 

Much  more,  the  figures  of  man,  woman,  child. 

These  are  the  frame  to  ?    What's  it  all  about  ? 

To  be  passed  over,  despised?  or  dwelt  upon, 

Wondered  at  ?  oh,  this  last  of  course  !  —  you  say. 

But  why  not  do  as  well  as  say,  —  paint  these 

Just  as  they  are,  careless  what  comes  of  it  ? 

God's  works  —  paint  any  one,  and  count  it  crime 

To  let  a  truth  slip.     Don't  object,  "  His  works 

Are  4iere  already ;  nature  is  complete : 

Suppose  you  reproduce  her—  (which  you  can't) 

There's  no  advantage  !  you  must  beat  her,  then." 

For,  don't  you  mark?  we're  made  so  that  we  love 

First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have  passed 

Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see ; 

And  so  they  are  better,  painted  —  better  to  us, 

Which  is  the  same  thing.    Art  was  given  for  that  j 

God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so, 

Lending  our  minds  out.    Have  you  noticed,  now 

Your  cullion's  hanging  face  ?    A  bit  of  chalk, 

And  trust  me  but  you  should,  though  !    How  much  more 

If  I  drew  higher  things  with  the  same  truth  ! 

That  were  to  take  the  Prior's  pulpit-place. 

Interpret  God  to  all  of  you!    O! ,  oh. 

It  makes  me  mad  to  see  what  men  shall  do 

And  we  in  our  graves  !    This  world's  no  blot  for  us 

Nor  blank ;  it  means  intensely,  and  means  good : 

To  find  its  meaning  is  my  meat  and  drink.        (pp.  216-7) 

^Hftf  rl",^  ^"''  .'V"  ^''  ^''^y  ""  S^^"^y'  'he  artist 
lifts  his  fellows,  with  their  half-apprehensions,  up  to  his 

own  sphere,  by  intensifying  the  import   of  details,  and 
rounding  the  universal  meaning." 


115 


"2 


'It 


,  * 


ii6 


THEORY   OP   ART. 


\M    ■ 
■  .1 


The  artist  therefore  attains  juster  conceptions  of  ultimate 
truth  and  beauty  than  ordinary  men ;  and  the  more  deep 
and  complex  these  conceptions  are,  the  more  inadequately 
will  his  material  present  them.  The  works  of  a  great 
artist  will  accordingly  always  bear  the  marks  of  imperfec- 
tion, of  the  failure  of  the  artist  to  attain  his  ideal.  But 
this  very  imperfection  implies  the  possibility  of  further 
progress  ;  it  is  the  space  afforded  for  the  soul  to  struggle 
higher.  Perfection,  on  the  other  hand,  implies  a  low  ideal, 
indicates  that  the  artist  has  come  to  a  standstill,  is  the 
mark  of  stunted  spiritual  development  —  "A  man's  reach 
should  exceed  his  grasp." 

All  this  is  illustrated  in  one  of  Browning's  most  perfect 
and  beautiful  poems,  Andrea  del  Sat  to.  /This  poem  was 
suggested  by  a  portrait  of  Andrea  and  h  .s  wife,  painted  by 
himself,  and  now  hanging  in  the  Pitti  G:  illery  at  Florence. 
Andrea  is  a  painter  who  ranks  high  among  the  contempo- 
raries of  Raphael  and  Michel  Angelo,  ei.pecially  by  reason 
of  his  technical  execution,  which  was  so  perfect  as  to  win 
for  him  the  surname  of  "  The  Faultless  Painter."  Early 
in  life  he  enjoyed  the  favor  of  Francis  I.,  at  whose  court  he 
for  a  time  resided ;  but,  having  received  a  large  sum  of 
money  from  Francis  for  the  purchase  of  works  of  art  in 
Italy,  he,  under  the  influence  of  his  wife,  a  beautiful  but 
unprincipled  woman,  embezzled  it,  applying  it  to  the  erec- 
tion of  a  house  for  himself  at  Florence.  This  degradation 
of  his  moral  nature,  this  sacrifice  of  higher  for  lower  aims, 
seem  to  Browning  intimately  connected  with  a  lack  of 
loftiness  of  ideal  which  he  discerns  in  Andrea's  paintings. 
This  innate  defect  in  Andrea,  Browning  further  represents 
as  increased  by  the  influence  of  his  wife  Lucrezia,  whom  he 
pictures  as  not  merely  unprincipled,  but  heartless  and 
shallow,  quite  incapable  of  appreciating  any  but  the  lowest 


THEORY   OF   ART.  tl7 

and  most  material  aspects  of  life.     It  is  she  whom  Andrea 
addresses  in  the  poem ;  she  has  been  teasing  him  to  paint 
a  picture  for  one  of  her  friends.     The  place  is  his  studio  in 
the  house  built  with  Francis'  gold.     Around  hang  pictures 
by  Andrea,  as  well  as  a  copy  of  a  work  of  Raphael,  which, 
exhibiting  that  loftiness  of  purpose  which  Andrea  lacks,  and 
that  defective  execution  which,  according  to  Browning, 
mai.     ill  works  of  the  highest  art,  serves  as  a  contrast  to 
bring  out  Andrea's  defects,  and  as  a  text  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  poem.     It  is  an  autumn  evening,  the  darkness 
is  gathering ;  a  sombre  melancholy,  in  keeping  with  An- 
drea's mood,  hangs  over  everything.    He  is  conscious  of  his 
degradation,  oppressed  with  the  sense  of  failure,  yet  lacks 
strength  of  character  to  break  his  bonds.     He  half  excuses 
his  feebleness  as  submission  to  God's  will.     His  heart  is 
yearning  for  sympathy  and  companionship,  and  for  a  stim- 
ulus to  higher  impulses  not  yet  dead  within  him ;  but  this 
his  wife  is  equally  indisposed  and  unable  to  give.     She  is 
heartless  and  indifferent,  the  restless  element  in  the  scene, 
which  she  closes  by  hastening  away  to  keep  an  appoint- 
ment with  a  supposed  cousin,  really  a  lover. 


"S-'* 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 

(Called  «'  Thb  Faultlhss  Paintek.") 

But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 

No,  my  Lucrezia !  bear  with  me  for  once  : 

Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 

You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your  heart? 

m  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend,  never  fear, 

Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way, 

Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own  price, 

And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 

When  next  it  takes  mine.     Will  it ?  tenderly? 


'*  i 


■mt'f- 


ii8 


THEORY   OF    ART. 


■as  » 


itG 


Oh,  I'll  content  him,  —  but  to-morrow.  Love  !  to 

I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think, 

This  evening  more  than  usual :  and  it  seems 

As  if —  forgive  now  —  should  you  let  me  sit 

Here  by  the  window,  with  your  hand  in  mine. 

And  look  a  half  hour  forth  on  Fiesole,  15 

Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use. 

Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 

I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 

Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.    Let  us  try. 

To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this  !  ao 

Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 

And  mine,  the  man's  bared  breast  she  curls  inside. 

Don't  count  the  time  lost,  neither ;  you  must  serve 

For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require : 

It  saves  a  model.    So  !  keep  looking  so  — 

My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds  ! 

—  How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect  ears, 
Even  to  put  the  pearl  there  !  oh,  so  sweet  — 
My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon. 

Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his,  30 

And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 

While  she  looks  —  no  one's :  very  dear,  no  less. 

You  smile  ?  why,  there's  my  picture  ready  made. 

There's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony  ! 

A  common  grayness  silvers  everything,  —  35 

All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 

—  You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 
(That's  gone,  you  know)  —  but  I,  at  every  point ; 
My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned  down 

To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole.  40 

There's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top ; 


2$ 


25.  "  It  saves  a  model " :  note  the  sort  of  motive  which  Andrea  feels  his  wife 
can  really  appreciate. 


THEORY    OF   ART. 


119 


45 


50 


55 


That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 

Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside ; 

The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden ;  days  decrease, 

And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  everything. 

Eh  ?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape, 

As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 

And  all  that  I  was  bom  to  be  and  do, 

A  twilight-piece.     Love,  we  are  in  God's  hand. 

How  strange  now,  looks  the  life  he  makes  us  lead ; 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are  ! 

I  feel  he  laid  the  fetter :  let  it  lie  ! 

This  chamber,  for  example  —  turn  your  head  — 

All  that's  behind  us  !    You  don't  understand 

Nor  care  to  understand  about  ray  art. 

But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak : 

And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 

—  It  is  the  thing,  Love  !  so  such  things  should  be  — 
Behold  Madonna ! — I  am  bold  to  say. 
I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know. 
What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 
I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep  — 
Do  easily,  too  —  when  I  say,  perfectly, 
I  do  not  boast,  perhaps :  yourself  are  judge. 
Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last  week ; 
And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  France. 
At  any  rate  'tis  easy,  all  of  it ! 
No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that's  long  past : 
I  do  what  many  dream  of,  all  their  lives, 

—  Dream  ?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do, 
And  fail  in  doing.    I  could  count  twenty  such 
On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this  town, 
Who  strive  —  you  don't  know  how  the  others  strive 

59-  "  Behold  Madonna" :  he  points  to  one  of  his  pictures  of  the  Madonna. 
62.  Note  the  coldness  of  temperament,  the  lack  of  enthusiasm  which,  as  we 
have  seen,  is,  in  Browning's  view,  a  cardinal  defect  of  character. 


60 


65 


70 


120 


THEORY   OF    ART, 


To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 

Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat,  —  75 

Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less.  Someone  says, 

(I  know  his  name,  no  matter)  —  so  much  less  ! 

Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia :  I  am  judged. 

There  bums  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them. 

In  their  vexed  beating  stuffed  and  stopped-up  brain,  80 

Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  than  goes  on  to  prompt 

This  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's  hand  of  mine. 

Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  themselves,  I  know. 

Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that's  shut  to  me. 

Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough,  85 

Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the  world. 

My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 

The  sudden  blood  of  these  men  !  at  a  word  — 

Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too. 

I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself,  90 

Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's  blame 

Or  their  praise  either.    Somebody  remarks 

Morello's  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced. 

His  hue  mistaken ;  what  of  that?  or  else. 

Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered ;  what  of  that?  95 

Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  mountain  care  ? 

Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 

Or  what's  a  heaven  for?    All  is  silver-gray. 

Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art :  the  worse  ! 

I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might  gain ;  100 

And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 

"  Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself, 

Our  head  would  have  o'erlooked  the  world  ! "     No  doubt. 

Yonder's  a  work  row,  of  that  famous  youth 

The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago.  105 


93.  "  Mordlo  " :  a  mountain  near  Florence,  visible  through  the  window. 
105.  "The  Urbinate":  Raphael,  died  1520. 


THEORY    OF    ART. 


121 


75 


80 


85 


90 


95 


00 


»5 


w. 


no 


"5 


1 30 


(Tis  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 
Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 
Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to  see, 
Reaching,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish  him, 
Above  and  through  his  art  —  for  it  gives  way ; 
That  arm  is  wrongly  put  — and  there  again  — 
A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  lines, 
Its  body,  so  to  speak :  its  soul  is  right, 
He  means  right—  that,  a  child  may  understand. 
Still,  what  an  arm  1  and  I  could  alter  it : 
But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the  stretch- 
out of  me,  out  of  me  !    And  wherefore  out? 
Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given  me  soul. 
We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you. 
Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think  — 

More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 

But  had  you  —  oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow, 

And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth. 

And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 

The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare - 

Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought  a  mird  ! 

Some  women  do  so.     Had  the  mouth  there  urged 

"  God  and  the  gloiy  !  never  care  for  gain. 

The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that? 

Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo ! 

Rafael  is  waiting :  up  to  God,  all  three  ! " 

I  might  have  done  it  for  you.    So  it  seems : 

Perhaps  not.    All  is  as  God  overrules. 

Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's  self; 

106   "Vas«i»:  the  historian  of  painting.     In   his  Lives  of  th.  Painters 
(traM.  ,n  Bohn's  Library)  a  life  of  Andrea  will  be  found. 

121.  Notice  here  and  in  what  follows  his  consciousness  of  his  wife's  defects 

«d  e«L°[  ht  '^  '"'"""'  ""'  '-'  ""^  ^"•'""  ^'•^  "^^^  ^^  ^^^ 
130- "Agnolo":  Michael  Angelo. 


-OMI 


»25 


130 


122 


THEORY    OF   ART. 


til  s.% 


The  rest  avail  not.    Why  do  I  need  you?  135 

What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo? 

In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not ; 

And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive  : 

Yet  the  will's  somewhat  —  somewhat,  too,  the  power  — 

And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.    At  the  end,  140 

God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 

Tis  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict. 

That  I  am  something  underrated  here. 

Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the  truth. 

I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all  day,  145 

For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 

The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside ; 

But  they  speak  sometimes ;  I  must  bear  it  all. 

Well  may  they  speak  !    That  Francis,  that  first  time. 

And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau  !  150 

I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  ground, 

Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 

In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden  look,  — 

One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 

Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the  smile,  155 

One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck. 

The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 

I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me. 

All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eyes. 

Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of  souls  160 

Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts, — 

And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  beyond. 

This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work. 

To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward  ! 

A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days?  165 

And  had  you  not  grown  restless  .  .  .  but  I  know  — 

Tis  done  and  past ;  'twas  right,  my  instinct  said ; 

146.  "  Paris  lords  " :  who  were,  of  course,  acquainted  with  his  embezzlement 
of  Francis'  money. 


THEORY  OP   ART. 


123 


35 


40 


45 


50 


55 


)0 


>5 


ment 


Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  grey : 

And  I'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 

Out  of  the  grange  whose  four  walls  make  his  world. 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way? 

You  called  me  and  I  came  home  to  your  heart. 

The  triumph  was,  to  have  ended  there ;  then,  if 

I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost? 

Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hair's  gold, 

You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine  ! 

"  Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that ; 

The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray, 

But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife — " 

Men  will  excuse  me.    I  am  glad  to  judge    * 

Both  pictures  in  your  presence ;  clearer  grows 

My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 

For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 

Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self, 

To  Rafael  ...  I  have  known  it  all  these  years  .  .  . 

(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his  thoughts 

Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 

Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 

"  Friend,  there's  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub 

Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares  how. 

Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 

As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and  kings. 

Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of  yours  ! " 

To  Rafael's  ! — And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 

I  hardly  dare  .  .  .  yet,  only  you  to  see, 

Give  the  chalk  here  —  quick,  thus  the  line  should  go  ! 

Ay,  but  the  soul !  he's  Rafael !  rub  it  out ! 

Still,  all  I  care  for,  -f  he  spoke  the  truth, 

(What  he?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo? 

Do  you  forget  already  wo'db  like  those?) 


170 


»75 


180 


185 


190 


»9S 


^  t  A 

1."' ';. 
.  .> 


200 


199-200.  A  fine  touch  to  indicate  at  once  Lucrezia's  ignorance  and  indifference. 


M 


124 


THEORY   OF   ART. 


1:1   !•..■•, 


f**        ^' 


If  really  there  was  such  a  chance  so  lost,  — 

Is,  whether  you're  —  not  grateful  —  but  more  pleased. 

Well,  let  me  think  so.    And  you  smile  indeed  ! 

This  hour  has  been  an  hour  1    Another  smile  ? 

If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night  305 

I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend  ? 

I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you  more. 

See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now ;  there's  a  star ; 

Morello's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall, 

The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by.  210 

Come  from  the  window.  Love,  —  come  in,  at  last. 

Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 

We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.    God  is  just. 

King  Francis  may  forgive  me  :  oft  at  nights 

When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out,  215 

The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from  brick 

Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright  gold. 

That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with  ! 

Let  us  but  love  each  other.     Must  you  go? 

That  Cousin  here  again?  he  waits  outside?  220 

Must  see  you  —  you,  and  not  with  me  ?    Those  loans  ? 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay?  you  smiled  for  that? 

Well,  let  smiles  buy  me  !  have  you  more  to  spend  ? 

While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a  heart 

Are  left  me,  work's  my  ware,  and  what's  it  worth?  225 

I'll  pay  my  fancy.    Only  let  me  sit 

The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out, 

Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 

How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in  Franc  e, 

One  picture,  just  one  more  —  the  Virgin's  face,  230 

Not  your's  this  time  !     I  want  you  at  rny  side 

To  hear  them  —  that  is,  Michel  Agnolo  — 


230-1.  His  wire's  face  reappears  continually  in  the  female  personages  of 
his  pictures. 


THEORY   OF    ART. 


u$ 


Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 

Will  you?    To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend. 

I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor, 

Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand  —  there,  there, 

And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 

If  he  demurs ;  the  whole  should  prove  enough 

To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin's  freak.    Beside, 

What's  better  and  what's  all  I  care  about, 

Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff ! 

Ix)ve,  does  that  please  you  ?    Ah,  but  what  does  he. 

The  Cousin  !  what  does  he  to  please  you  more  ? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 

I  regret  litUe,  I  would  change  still  less. 

Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it? 

The  very  wrong  to  Francis  !  —  it  is  true 

I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied. 

And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is  said. 

My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want. 

Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own  ?    You  see 

How  one  gets  rich  !    Let  each  one  bear  his  lot. 

They  were  bom  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor  they  died  : 

And  I  have  labored  somewhat  in  my  time 

And  not  been  paid  profusely.    Some  good  son 

Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures  —  let  him  try ! 

No  doubt,  there's  something  strikes  a  balance.    Yes, 

You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to-night. 

This  must  suffice  me  here.    What  would  one  have  ? 

In  heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more  chance  — 

Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 

Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed. 

For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Agnolo  and  me 

To  cover—  the  three  first  without  a  wife. 


235 


340 


■r,w 

-*9 


'45 


350 


ass 


Iff 

.H 


360 


263.  "  Leonard  " :  Leonardo  da  Vind. 


126 


THEORY   OF   ART. 


4*H,  I. 


i>3 


While  I  have  mine  !    So  —  still  they  overcome 
Because  there's  still  Lucrezia,  —  as  I  choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle  !    Go,  my  Love. 


265 


Having  spoken  thus  far  of  art  in  general,  let  us  now 
turn  to  Browning's  special  department  of  it,  —  poetry. 
On  the  theory  of  poetry,  many  remarks  are  to  be  found 
scattered  through  his  works,  but  the  main  sources  of  infor- 
mation are  two,  —  Sordello,  which  is  the  biography  of  a 
poet,  and  a  prose  essay  on  Shelley,  in  which  we  have  the 
advantage  of  hearing  Browning  speak,  if  in  somewhat 
obscure  and  transcendental  language,  directly  and  not 
dramatically. 

The  essay  on  Shelley  opens  with  a  classification  of  poets 
into  objective  and  subjective.  There  is  nothing  novel  in 
this,  but  the  definitions  which  follow  are  stamped  with 
Browning's  characteristic  way  of  looking  at  things.  The 
objective  poet  is,  he  says,  "  one  whose  endeavor  has  been 
to  reproduce  things  external  (whether  the  phenomena  of 
the  scenic  universe  or  the  manifested  action  of  human 
heart  and  brain),  with  an  immediate  reference  in  every 
case  to  the  common  eye  and  apprehension  of  his  fellow-men, 
assumed  capable  of  receiving  and  profiting  by  this  repro- 
duction." On  the  other  hand,  the  subjective  poet  "is 
impelled  to  embody  the  thing  he  perceives,  not  so  much 
with  reference  to  the  many  below,  as  the  One  above  him, 
the  supreme  Intelligence  whxh  apprehends  all  things  in 
their  absolute  truth,  —  an  ultimate  view  ever  aspired  to,  if 
but  partially  attained,  by  the  poet's  own  soul.  Not  what 
man  sees,  but  what  God  sees,  —  the  Ideas  of  Plato,  seeds 
of  creation  lying  bumingly  on  the  Divine  Hand,  —  it  is 
towards  these  that  he  stniggles.  Not  with  the  combina- 
tion of  humanity  in  action,  but  with  the  primal  elements 


THEORY   OP   ART. 


137 


of  humanity  he  has  to  do ;  and  he  digs  where  he  stands, 
preferring  to  seek  them  in  his  own  soul  as  iVz  nearest 
reflex  of  the  absolute  Mind,  according  to  the  intimations 
of  which  he  desires  to  perceive  and  speak."     The  truth, 
accordingly,  which  the  subjective  poet  presents,  is  truth 
which  he  himself  has  won  by  his  own  efforts ;  it  is  the 
result  of  his  investigations  into  his  own  nature  and  the 
universe  about  him,  — the  nearest  approximation  he  has 
been  able  to  make  to  the  absolute  verities.     He  has  some- 
thing new  to  communicate ;  he  is  a  discoverer.     Unques- 
tionably in  embodying  these  results  in  poetry,  his  first  aim 
should  be  to  represent,  with  the  utmost  possible  accuracy, 
the  conceptions  in  his  mind.     His  eye  must  be  fixed  on 
what  he  has  to  communicate  rather  than  on  his  audience ; 
and  the  subjective  conception  must  not,  in  any  way,  be 
modified  in  order  that  it  may  be  more  easily  grasped  by 
others   The  objective  poet,  on  the  other  hand,  is  not  so  much 
a  discoverer  as  an  interpreter.     He  takes  the  universe  as 
he  finds  it,  —  has  recourse  to  the  already  accumulated  store 
of  truth,  and  reproduces  it  for  men.     He  has  the  "  double 
faculty,"  Browning  observes,  "of  seeing  external  objects 
more  clearly,  widely,  and  deeply,  than  is  possible  to  the  aver- 
age mind,  at  the  same  time  that  he  is  so  acquainted  and  in 
sympathy  with  its  narro     C(    iprehension  as  to  be  careful 
to  supply  it  with  no  otaer  )imt.erials  than  it  can  combine 
into  an  intelligible  v '    U-."     Such  a  poet  must  needs  be  a 
fully  rounded  and  cnvciojicd  man.     He  differs  from  other 
men  both  in  the  comp 'ottness  of  his  nature,  —  no  :  >  :...y 
being  absent,  — and  in  he  high  degree  in  which  each  faculty 
is  present.     He  contains  all  men  within  himself,  is  poten- 
tially each  of  them.     Such  was  Shakespeare,  the  represen- 
tative objective  poet.     Such  the  source  of  the  maay-sided- 
ness  of  his  work,  both  as  regards  the  compliteaesi  of  its 


1 « '•- 

If;- 


138 


THEORY   OF   ART. 


at  .  '. 


I;? 
U 

M 


1^ 


-1  ■.  i 


\      ~ 


presentation  of  objective  truth,  and  as  regards  the  multi- 
tude and  variety  of  minds  for  which  that  presentation  has 
interest  and  validity.  On  the  other  hand,  the  subjective 
poet  requires,  indeed,  a  high  development  of  certain  facul- 
ties, but  no  such  rounded  nature.  Contrast  Shelley,  with 
his  intensity,  yet  narrowness  of  sympathy  and  subject,  and 
the  smallness  of  the  circle  to  whom  his  poetry  appeals, 
with  the  universal  Shakespeare. 

Mr.  Browning  goes  on  in  the  Essay  on  Shelley  to 
describe  the  succession  of  great  subjective  and  objective 
poets : — 

"There  is  a  time  when  the  general  eye  has,  so  to  speak, 
absorbed  its  fill  of  the  phenomena  around  it,  whether  spiritual  or 
materia],  and  desires  rather  to  learn  the  exacter  significance  of 
what  it  possesses,  than  to  receive  any  augmentation  of  what  it 
possessed.  Then  is  the  opportunity  for  the  poet  of  loftier  vision 
to  lift  his  fellows,  with  their  half-apprehensions,  up  to  his  own 
sphere,  by  intensifying  the  import  of  details,  and  rounding  the 
universal  meaning.  The  influence  of  such  an  achievement  will 
not  soon  die  out.  A  tribe  of  successors  (Homerides),  working 
more  or  less  in  the  same  spirit,  dwell  on  his  discoveries  and 
reinforce  his  doctrine ;  till,  at  unawares,  the  world  is  found  to  be 
subsisting  wholly  on  the  shadow  of  a  reality,  on  sentiments  diluted 
from  passions,  on  the  tradition  of  a  fact,  the  convention  of  a  moral, 
the  straw  of  last  year's  harvest.  Then  is  the  imperative  call  for 
the  appearance  of  another  sort  of  poet,  who  shall  at  once  replace 
this  intellectual  rumination  of  food  swallowed  long  ago,  by  a  supply 
of  the  fresh  and  living  swathe ;  getting  at  new  substance  by  break- 
ing up  assumed  wholes  into  parts  of  independent  and  unclassed 
value,  careless  of  the  unknown  laws  for  combining  them  (it  will 
be  the  business  of  yet  another  poet  to  suggest  those  hereafter), 
prodigal  of  objects  for  men's  outer  and  not  inner  sight,  shaping 
for  their  uses  a  new  and  different  creation  from  the  last,  which  it 
displaces  by  the  right  of  life  over  death,  —  to  endure  until,  in  the 


i 


THEORY   OP   ART. 


129 


i 


inevitable  process,  its  very  sufficiency  to  itself  shall  require,  at 
length,  an  exposition  of  its  affinity  to  something  higher,  —  when 
the  positive  yet  conflicting  facts  shall  again  precipitate  themselves 
under  a  harmonizing  law,  and  one  more  degree  will  be  apparent 
for  a  poet  to  climb  in  that  mighty  ladder,  of  which,  however  cloud- 
involved  and  undefined  may  glimmer  the  topmost  step,  the  world 
dares  no  longer  doubt  that  its  gradations  ascend." 

That  is  to  say,  the  work  of  poetry  is  progressive. 
When  the  labors  of  objective  poets  have  brought  the  gen- 
eral mass  of  mankind  to  their  own  level,  —  when  truth,  so 
far  as  attained,  has  been  digested,  —  there  appears  the  great 
subjective  poet,  who,  starting  from  the  same  level  of  truth 
as  his  fellows,  by  his  individual  efforts  rises  to  a  higher 
sphere;  —  makes  a  closer  approximation  to  the  absolute. 
The  attaining  of  this  advanced  standpoint  by  mankind  is 
brought  about,  in  turn,  by  the  work  of  a  new  epoch,  under 
the  guidance  of  a  new  generation  of  objective  poets.  A 
statement  of  similar  purport  may  be  found  in  Sordello 
{vide  p.  235). 

In  the  Essay,  Browning  further  states  :  — 

'"  I  st<.ill  observe,  in  passing,  that  it  seems  not  so  much  from  any 
e<:acnti  (  distinction  in  the  faculty  of  the  two  poets  or  in  the  nature 
of  tie  objects  contemplated  by  either,  as  in  the  more  immediate 
«  ."p  ibility  of  these  objects  to  the  distinct  purpose  of  each,  that  the 
ob)et.t2ve  ^  oet,  in  his  appeal  to  the  aggregate  human  mind,  chooses 
to  df  oi  with  the  doings  of  men  (the  result  of  which  dealing,  in  its 
pure  form,  when  even  description,  as  suggesting  a  describer,  is 
dispensed  with,  is  what  we  call  dramatic  poetry),  while  the  sub- 
jective poet,  whose  study  has  been  himself,  appealing  through 
himself  to  the  absolute  Divine  mind,  prefers  to  dwell  upon  those 
external  scenic  appearances  which  strike  out  most  abundantly  and 
uninterruptedly  his  inner  light  and  power,  selects  that  silence  of 
\y .  K  =?rth  and  sea  in  which  he  can  best  hear  the  beating  of  his  indi- 


A*«- 


I30 


THEORY   OF   ART. 


■■a 


m 


vidual  heart,  and  leaves  the  noisy,  complex,  yet  imperfect  exhibi- 
tions of  nature  in  the  manifold  experience  of  man  around  him, 
which  serve  only  to  distract  and  suppress  the  working  of  his  brain. 
.  .  .  Nor  is  there  any  reason  why  these  two  modes  of  poetic  fac- 
ulty may  not  issue  hereafter  from  the  same  poet  in  successive  per- 
fect works,  examples  of  which,  according  to  what  are  now  consid- 
ered the  exigences  of  art,  we  have  hitherto  possessed  in  distinct 
individuals  only.  A  mere  running  in  of  the  one  faculty  upon  the 
other,  is,  of  course^  ^^e  ordinary  circumstance.  Far  more  rarely 
it  happens  that  eithe  s  f-'iind  so  decidedly  prominent  and  supe- 
rior as  to  be  pronounc.  ^  ..-paratively  pure ;  while  of  the  perfect 
shield,  with  the  gold  and  v  <■  side  set  up  for  all  comers  to  chal- 
lenge, there  has  yet  been  no  instance." 

When  a  man  theorizes  about  his  own  art,  it  cannot  be 
but  that  his  theory  will  be  largely  based  on  his  individual 
experience,  and  will  usually  throw  considerable  light  on  his 
practice ;  as  it  does  in  the  case  before  us.  Asking  now, 
first  of  all,  to  which  of  these  two  categories  of  poets 
Browning  would  assign  himself,  the  answer  seems  to  be 
—  to  both.  He  appears  to  have  attempted  to  fill  the  gap 
referred  to  in  the  passage  just  quoted,  —  to  afford  "the  per- 
fect shield  with  gold  and  silver  side,"  to  combine  the  func- 
tions of  the  objective  and  the  subjective  poet. 

The  close  kinship  of  the  subjective  poet,  as  defined  by 
Browning,  with  the  philosopher,  is  evident  from  the  cita- 
tions. The  subjective  poet  has  new  truth  of  an  abstract 
nature  to  deliver ;  his  poetry  attempts  to  render,  not  con- 
crete facts,  but  the  underlying  verities.  Readers  of  Brown- 
ing's works  cannot  doubt  that  he  believes  himself  to  have 
arrived  at  truth  of  this  character.  The  stress  he  lays  on 
these  abstract  ideas  of  his,  the  earnestness  and  enthusiasm 
with  which  he  inculcates  them,  is  evident  even  when  he  is 
most  dramatic.     "What  God  sees,— the  Ideas  of  Plato, 


THEORY   OF   ART. 


131 


seeds  of  creation  lying  bumingly  in  the  Divine  Hand  "  — 
it  is  towards  these  that  Browning  struggles,  and  it  is  these 
his  poetry  unfolds.  He  is,  therefore,  according  to  his  own 
definition,  a  subjective  poet. 

Yet  the  form  of  Browning's  poetry  is  scarcely  ever  such 
as  would  correspond  with  matter  of  this  kind.  He  is  not 
lyrical ;  he  rarely  speaks  in  his  own  person  ;  he  is  dramatic, 
he  presents  an  objective  world  of  men  and  women.  It  is 
true  he  pictures  the  internal,  rather  than  the  external 
world ;  but  it  is  the  internal  world  of  others,  and  there- 
fore, in  relation  to  him,  objective.  Browning  is,  therefore, 
an  objective  poet,  too. 

This  conscious  attempt  to  combine  the  two  sides  of  poe- 
try is  an  essential  characteristic  of  Browning's  work,  and 
the  source  of  some  of  its  most  striking  peculiarities.  He 
attempts  at  once  to  give  a  picturesque  representation  of 
the  world,  and  to  express  and  make  vivid  the  abstract  ideas 
by  which  he  considers  himself  to  have  risen  a  stage  towards 
absolute  truth.  In  the  majority  of  his  poems,  especially 
of  his  successful  poems,  this  twofold  aspect  is  easily  ob- 
servable. Take  the  one  just  cited,  Andrea  del  Sarto.  In 
the  first  place,  it  gives  a  representation  of  human  life,  —  of 
two  characters,  and  a  situation.  The  picture  is  admirable, 
abundantly  satisfactory  in  itself  apart  from  any  secondary 
object.  But  the  poem  contains,  besides,  an  exemplification 
of  the  poet's  theory  of  art  and,  further,  of  some  of  his 
fundamental  ideas  regarding  life,  —  the  imperfection  of 
the  present  world,  the  existence  of  the  ideal  or  absolute, 
man's  fundamental  need  of  struggle  throtigh  the  one 
towards  the  other.  So  in  the  Epistle  of  Karshish,  we  have 
an  admirable  sketch  of  character,  a  study  of  the  effect  of 
an  abnormal  experience  on  two  persons.  Excellent  again, 
and  sufficient  in  itself;  but,  for  Browning,  this  picture  wins 


132 


THEORY    OF   ART. 


1^ 


importance  and  worth,  as  an  exemplification  of  man's  need 
of  a  revelation  of  God  as  love,  and  of  the  necessity  of  our 
present  limitations  in  the  perception  of  truth,  in  order 
that  the  soul  may  exert  itself  in  its  present  narrow  sphere. 
For  other  striking  examples  of  this  twofold  aspect  of 
Browning's  poetry,  the  reader  may  be  referred  to  Dts  AH- 
ber  Visum,  A  Grammarian  s  Funeral,  Saul,  Fra  Lippo  Lippi, 
Paracelsus,  Sordello  itself.  To  Browning,  small  and  appar- 
ently trifling  incidents  possess  tremendous  importance,  as 
unfolding  and  illustrating  general  truths.  In  the  words 
of  M.  Milsandv  "  His  imagination  is  attracted  and  brought 
into  play  no  le?- •  .»y  small  things  than  by  great ;  if  it  has 
a  preference,  it  is  for  great  truths  manifesting  themselves 
in  trifling  tipisodes." 

The  particulai  sor.  of  objective  fact  which  Browning 
treats,  gives  him  an  especial  opportunity  of  embodying 
also  the  subjective  side.  For  he  represents  character  as 
exhibited  through  thought,  rather  than  through  action ; 
and  under  these  circumstances,  character  can  best  be 
brought  out  (as  explained  in  Chapter  I.),  when  the  person- 
age defends  the  principles  that  actuate  him,  or  discusses 
some  fundamental  theory.  The  poet  is  thus  enabled  dra- 
matically to  unfold,  and  indirectly  to  instil,  his  favorite 
doctrines.  For  illustration,  there  can  be  found  no  better 
examples  than  those  which  have  been  quoted,  —  Cleon,  A 
Death  in  the  Desert,  Andrea  del  Sarto ;  or,  to  cite  others. 
Bishop  Blougram,  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  and,  among  his  longer 
poems,  Paracelsus,  Fifine  at  the  Fair.  This  method  of  re- 
vealing the  white  light  of  his  abstract  truths  through  the 
colored  media  of  dramatic  presentations,  is  connected  with 
his  view  of  the  nature  of  truth,  and  with  a  peculiarity 
of  his  genius  which  will  be  referred  to  in  a  later 
chapter. 


in 


m 


THEORY   OF   ART. 


133 


To  sum  up :  Browning  has  taken  a  difficult  task  upon  his 
shoulders,  —  a  task  which  he  himself  states  no  one  has  yet 
discharged,  —  that  of  revealing  truth  '  in  reference  to  the 
aggregate  human  mind,'  and  •  in  reference  to  the  Supreme 
Intelligence,'  to  the  ultimate, — the  task  of  being  at  once 
picturesque  and  abstract.  He  has,  therefore,  attempted  a 
new  development  in  poetic  art.  He  is  also,  as  was  shown 
in  the  opening  chapter,  an  innovator  in  another  respect. 
He  has  attempted  to  extend  the  domain  of  poetry  over  the 
whole  of  mental  life ;  over  what  has  hitherto  been  regarded 
as  scientific,  and  not  picturesque.  This,  too,  is  a  conscious 
innovation  with  Browning.  Sordello,  towards  the  close  of 
Book  V.  of  the  poem  named  after  him,  traces  the  develop- 
ment of  poetry  through  the  epic  to  the  more  complex 
dramatic  stage,  and  finally  to  another  stage  which  he  him- 
self proposes  to  inaugurate,  —  not,  indeed,  for  the  world 
in  general,  but  for  the  chosen  few  who  can  appreciate  it. 
For  these  he  ofTers  to  — 


"unveil  the  last  of  mysteries  — 

Man's  inmost  life  shall  have  yet  freer  play ; 
Once  more  I  cast  external  things  away. 
And  nature's  composite  so  decompose 
That "... 


(Here  Browning  himself  interrupts  his  character,  and 
mentions  a  concrete  example  of  this  kind  of  poetry.) 


"  Why,  he  writes  Sordello  /  " 


(p.  238.) 


Browning,  then,  is  in  an  analogous  position  to  those 
early  painters  of  whom  he  speaks  in  the  passage  which  has 
been  quoted  from  Old  Pictures  in  Florence;  and  that  pas- 
sage contains  an  implicit  defence  of  his  own  works.     Im- 


134 


THEORY  OF  ART. 


i.t       .! 


I  i! 


perfect  in  expression,  in  form,  in  technical  execution  they 
may  be ;  but  that  is  inevitable  in  the  case  of  an  artist  who 
takes  a  step  forward.  He  is,  notwithstanding,  greater  than 
the  perfect  workman  who  has  made  no  advance.  Again, 
we  recall  his  doctrine  that  all  great  artistic  work  is  neces- 
sarily characterized  by  imperfection,  —  the  indication  of  the 
superiority  of  the  ideal  to  the  realizable,  of  the  man  to  the 
artist.  Finally,  having  great  truths  to  utter.  Browning 
"  is  impelled  to  embody  the  thing  he  perceives  not  so  much 
in  reference  to  the  many  below,  as  the  One  above  him,"  — 
in  other  words,  he  holds  it  more  important  that  his 
thoughts  should  be  rendered  accurately  in  all  their  com- 
plexity, than  that  they  should  be  put  into  an  easily  com- 
prehensible form.  It  is  in  this  sense  that  he  speaks,  in  his 
own  person,  in  the  excursus  which  closes  Book  III.  of  Sor- 
dello.  He  there  compares  himself  with  contemporary 
poets  who  have  no  message  to  deliver,  no  water  for  the 
thirsty  world ;  while  he  himself,  like  Moses,  brings  forth  a 
living  stream  of  truth  in  the  desert,  though  his  manner  of 
striking  the  rock  may  be  somewhat  awkward :  — 


While  awkwardly  enough  your  Moses  smites 

The  rock,  though  he  forego  the  Promised  Land 

Thereby,  have  Satan  claim  his  carcass,  and 

Figure  as  Metaphysic  Poet !  (p.  164.) 


DEVELOPMENT  :    FIRST    I'KKIOD. 


ns 


CHAPTER  V. 


DEVELOPMENT:   FIRST  PERIOD. 


The  earlier  chapters  of  this  volume  have  treated  of 
various  aspects  presented  by  Browning's  work  as  a  whole ; 
the  remaining  chapters  are  devoted  to  reviewing  his  devel- 
opment, and  characterizing  the  works  of  the  successive 
periods  of  his  career. 

Robert  Browning  was  born  May  7th,  1812.*  His  father, 
an  official  in  the  Bank  of  England,  was  a  man  of  literary 
tastes  and  even,  as  his  son  asserts,  of  poetic  endowments. 
Robert  Browning  was  a  precocious  child,  and  wrote  verses 
in  his  very  early  years.  He  possessed  also  aptitudes  for 
the  sister  arts  of  poetry  and  painting,  an  intimate  ac. 
quaintance  with  which  he  has  often  exhibited  in  later 
years.  When  eight  years  old,  he  debated  with  himself, 
we  are  informed,  whether  he  should  not,  while  retaining 
the  sceptre  of  poetry,  conquer  also  the  provinces  of  music 
and  painting.  At  the  age  of  twelve  he  had  written 
poems  enough  to  form  a  volume ;  but  —  a  fact  which  will 
not  appear  incredible  —  was  unable  to  find  a  publisher. 
Browning's  family  were  dissenters,  and  he  attended 
neither  the  public  schools  nor  universities ;  but,  with  his 
father's  consent,  pursued  in  private  such  counses  of  study 
as  might  fit  him  for  his  proposed  career,  —  that  of  a  poet. 

1  The  bloKraphical  details  are  drawn  from  an  article  by  E.  W.  Gosse  on 
•'  The  Early  Writings  of  Robert  Browning  "  in  Scribner's  Century  Magazine. 
December,  1881. 


{;Wr 


136 


DEVELOPMENT  I    FIRST    PERIOD. 


4  Wi^  »»      '  • 


l.t     ' 


w  •. 


ill 


]  M 


Pecuniary  considerations  did  not  prevent  this,  as  the  pa- 
ternal fortune  was  sufficient  to  provide  a  competence  for 
the  family,  which  consisted,  besides  the  poet,  of  a  daughter 
only.  So  that  in  Browning  we  have  the  very  unusual 
phenomenon  of  a  poet  who  was  consciously  prepared  for 
his  vocation  from  the  beginning.  One  or  two  additional 
facts  with  regard  to  Browning's  non-literary  life  may  be 
added  here.  In  1834  he  went  to  Russia,  where  he  re- 
mained for  some  time.  In  1846  he  married  Elizabeth 
Barrett,  the  poetess ;  and  on  account  of  her  delicate  health, 
the  following  years  of  his  life,  until  her  death  in  1861,  were 
mainly  spent  in  Italy.  With  Italy  Browning  is  closely  con- 
nected ;  his  works  are  full  of  Italian  scenery,  Italian  his- 
tory, and  Italian  art. 

To  return  to  his  literary  work.  The  manuscript  of  his 
earliest  poems  was  given  to  Mr.  Fox,  a  Unitarian  clergy- 
man, who  is  voucher  for  the  statement  that  these  poems 
were  so  full  and  melodious  that  he  feared  the  snare  of  the 
young  poet  would  be  a  too  gorgeous  scale  of  language  and 
tenuity  of  thought,  concealed  by  metrical  audacity.  These 
earlier  poems  were  written  under  the  influence  of  Byron's 
work;  but,  about  1825,  Browning's  conception  of  poetry 
was  revolutionized  by  meeting  with  some  productions  of 
Shelley.  So  little  was  Shelley  known  in  those  days  that  it 
was  with  great  difficulty  that  Browning  procured  a  copy  of 
his  works.  The  copy  which  he  at  length  acquired,  con- 
tained bound  up  with  Shelley  the  works  of  another  poet, 
as  yet  unknown  to  him,  —  Keats. 

In  later  years,  Browning  has  more  than  once  indicated 
his  admiration  for  Shelley ;  and  though,  at  first  sight,  this 
sympathy  with  a  poet  whose  work  is  so  unlike  his  own, 
seems  somewhat  strange,  a  little  reflection  reveals  a  funda- 
mental accord  between  their  respective  ways  of  thinking. 


DEVELOPMENT  :    FIRST    PERIOD. 


137 


Shelley,  too,  has  a  tendency  to  metaphysics  and  abstract 
thinking,  is  concerned  with  those  ultimate  problems 
which  are  of  such  high  import  to  Browning,  and  inclines 
to  find  a  similar  solution  for  them  in  a  species  of  idealism 
or  Platonism.  But,  perhaps,  it  is  Shelley's  temperament 
which  has  drawn  Browning  most  of  all  towards  him,  —  that 
enthusiasm,  that  eager,  strenuous  struggle  after  the  ideal, 
which  is  for  Browning  the  highest  element  of  character. 

About  this  time,  1825,  Browning  conceived  the  idea  of 
writing  a  series  of  monodramatic  epics,  narratives  of  the 
lives  of  typical  souls.  Of  these,  only  one,  Pauline,  sur- 
vives, and  it  seems  to  be  but  a  fragment.  Pauline  was 
printed  in  1832,  when  the  author  was  twenty  years  old, 
by  means  of  money  furnished  by  an  aunt  of  the  poet.  It 
is  naturally  an  immature  work;  and,  in  his  later  years, 
Browning  would  gladly  have  left  it  to  oblivion.  Nowa- 
days, however,  a  writer  of  mark  cannot  hope  that  any 
work  of  his,  once  printed,  will  be  allowed  to  be  forgotten. 
Browning,  in  self-defence,  republished  it  in  1868  among 
his  other  works.  Notwithstanding  its  defects,  Pauline 
attracted  the  attention  of  one  or  two  of  the  more  clear- 
sighted critics.  John  Stuart  Mill  was  so  far  impressed 
as  to  be  desirous  of  reviewing  it ;  but  was  prevented  by 
circumstances  from  carrying  out  his  intention.  In  Pauline, 
Browning's  style  has  not  yet  attained  the  compression, 
vigor,  and  tortuousness  of  his  later  work ;  but  subject 
and  manner  of  treatment  are  already  those  which  he  has 
since  made  specially  his  own.  Pauline  is  a  psychological 
study,  thrown  into  the  form  of  a  monologue. 

The  study  of  character  was  continued  in  Paracelsus, 
published  in  1835,  and  in  Sordello,  which  appeared  in 
1840.  The  characters  exhibited  in  all  three  poems  are  of 
the  same  general  type,  —  men  of  magnificent  endowments. 


> 


138 


DEVELOPMENT:    FIRST    PERIOD. 


ttrn- 


•* '  ^ 


L 


men  of  genius,  who  attempt  to  exact  too  much  from  life, 
to  realize  a  multiplicity  and  depth  of  experience  propor- 
tionate, indeed,  to  the  desires  of  the  soul,  but  out  of  pro- 
portion to  the  material  conditions  imposed  upon  it.  In 
each  case,  the  person  is  revealed  through  the  struggle  he 
undergoes  in  the  attempt  to  harmonize  himself  with  his 
environment. 

At  the  outset  of  life,  man  finds  himself  furnished  with 
desires,  aspiration.s,  and  capabilities  which  he  would  fain 
realize.  On  the  other  hand,  he  soon  learns  that  he  is 
hampered  by  conditions,  bodily,  social,  or  other,  which 
hinder  such  realization.  Each  man  must  adjust,  in  his 
own  case,  these  powers  and  desires  which  he  feels  within 
himself,  to  the  stern  and  binding  necessities  without  him. 
He  must  determine  how,  in  the  face  of  these  conditions,  he 
may  give  the  utmost  possible  play  and  to  get  the  utmost 
possible  results  from  his  own  individuality.  This  is  a 
problem  which  besets  us  most  of  all  in  the  early  years  of 
manhood,  and  it  is  not  unnatural  that  Browning  should 
at  this  period  have  thrice  returned  to  it. 

Browning  is,  of  course,  not  to  be  identified  with  any 
one  of  the  three  characters  depicted  in  the  three  poems 
named ;  but  there  is  sufficient  similarity  in  the  experience 
of  all  to  point  unmistakably  to  a  common  origin  in  the 
poet's  own  experience.  We  have  noted  that  he  is  wont  to 
give  expression  to  his  own  opinions  through  characters 
unlike,  sometimes  even  abhorrent  to,  his  own.  So  doubt- 
less here  he  embodies  phases  of  his  own  experience  in 
Sordello,  Paracelsus,  and  the  lover  of  Pauline.  Browning, 
indeed,  has  not  failed  as  these  failed ;  he  is  superior  to 
them,  and  checked  himself  before  the  tendencies  which  he 
depicts,  had  in  his  own  case  culminated  in  disaster.  But 
he  was  potentially  each  of  these  three  persons.     So  Wer- 


DEVELOl'MENT  :    FIRST    I>P:RIUD. 


•39 


ther's  experience  was  in  part  the  experience  of  Goethe ; 
and  the  remnant  of  it  was  what  Goethe  felt  would  have 
been  the  outcome  of  the  tendency,  had  he  not  checked  it. 

These  three  poems  can  best  be  understood  in  the  lij^ht 
of  biographies  of  men  of  genius,  like  Goethe,  —  men  of 
surpassing  powers  and  aspirations.  Our  own  experience 
is  apt  to  be  too  limited,  our  own  capacities  too  common- 
place to  afford  the  clue  to  the  interpretation  of  the 
inner  life  of  Paracelsus  or  Soraello.  The  problem  which 
forms  the  theme  of  these  works  becomes  exceedingly  com- 
plex in  the  case  of  exceptional  natures  with  many-sided 
aspirations  and  multitudinous  endowments.  When  a  man 
has  so  strong  a  bent  in  any  one  direction  (be  it,  for  exam- 
ple, the  acquisition  of  wealth,  or  of  knowlec'^^^e),  that  every 
other  aim  is  insignificant  in  proportion,  the  solution  of 
the  problem  is  comparatively  easy.  But  should  these  two 
desires  be  united  in  equal  force  in  a  single  individual,  the 
course  of  life  to  be  adopted  becomes  much  more  difficult  to 
determine.  Thence  we  may  guess  the  difficulties  of  the 
task  in  the  case  of  a  Goethe,  o.r  of  a  Sordello,  men  with 
the  most  varied  capacities,  interests,  and  desires,  —  with 
impulses  towards  art,  towards  science,  towards  active  life, 
—  with  an  intense  yearning  to  exhaust  all  experience,  all 
life. 

Now,  whatever  may  be  Browning's  imperfections  as  a 
poet,  the  careful  study  of  his  works  affords  undoubted 
evidence  of  a  man  of  this  rich  and  many-sided  nature. 
He  is  elevated  fat  above  the  average  man  by  the  multi- 
plicity of  his  interests  and  capacities,  and  also  by  the 
magnitude  and  energy  of  these  endowments  severally. 
Characters  of  similar  scope  and  energy,  he  not  unnaturally 
presents  in  his  earlier  works;  for  a  poet's  earlier  works 
are  apt  to  be  more  subjective  than  those  of  his  maturity. 


I40 


DEVELOPMENT  :    FIRST    PERIOD. 


.it 


From  the  complex  and  exceptional  character  of  the  persons 
depicted  arises  a  considerable  part  of  the  obscurity  which 
belongs  to  these  works. 

To  discuss  each  of  these  three  poems  at  length  would 
occupy  too  much  space ;  and,  rather  than  briefly  sketch 
each,  it  seems  advantageous  to  give  an  exhaustive  analy- 
sis of  one  of  them.  Sordello  is  selected  because  it  is  the 
maturest  and  most  difficult  of  the  three;  because,  more- 
over, it  offers  the  most  complete  solution  of  the  problem 
which  lies  at  the  basis  of  each  of  the  poems ;  and  because, 
being  the  biography  of  a  poet,  it  affords  the  clearest  light 
for  the  understanding  of  Browning  himself,  and  his  work. 

The  obscurity  of  Sordello  is  proverbial,  but  before  care- 
ful study  this  obscurity  gradually  vanishes.  We  are,  at 
least,  encouraged  to  attempt  to  penetrate  it,  because  Brown- 
ing's obscurity  does  not  arise  from  confusion  of  ideas  in 
his  own  mind,  but  from  the  nature  of  these  ideas,  and 
from  his  manner  of  presenting  them.  Swinburne  therefore 
rightly  claims  that  if  we  use  terms  accurately,  "obscure" 
is  not  the  appropriate  epithet  for  Browning's  work. 


If 


"The  difficulty,"  says  Mr.  Swinburne  in  his  Essay  on  Chapman, 
"  found  by  many  in  certain  of  Mr.  Browning's  works  arises  from  a 
quality  the  very  reverse  of  that  which  produces  obscurity  properly 
so  called.  Obscurity  is  the  natural  product  of  turbid  forces  and 
confused  ideas;  of  a  feeble  and  clouded  or  of  a  vigorous  but 
unfixed  and  chaotic  intellect.  .  .  .  Now  if  there  is  any  great 
quality  more  perceptible  than  another  in  Mr.  Browning's  intellect, 
it  is  his  decisive  and  incisive  faculty  of  thought,  his  sureness  and 
inteniiity  of  perception,  his  rapid  and  trenchant  resolution  of  aim. 
To  charge  him  with  obscurity  is  about  as  accurate  as  to  call  Lyn- 
ceus  purblind  or  complain  of  the  sluggish  action  of  the  telegraphic 
wire.  He  is  something  too  much  the  reverse  of  obscure ;  he  is 
too  brilliant  and  siubtle  for  the  ready  reader  of  a  ready  writer  to 


development:  first  period. 


141 


follow  with  any  certainty  the  track  of  an  intelligence  which  moves 
with  such  incessant  rapidity,  or  even  to  realize  with  what  spider- 
like swiftness  and  sagacity  his  building  spirit  leaps  and  lightens  to 
and  fro  and  backward  and  forward  as  it  lives  along  the  animated 
line  of  its  labour,  springs  from  thread  to  thread  and  darts  from 
centre  to  circumference  of  the  glittering  and  quivering  web  of 
hvmg  thought  woven  from  the  inexhaustible  stores  of  his  percep- 
tion and  kindled  from  the  inexhaustible  fire  of  his  imagination. 
He  never  thinks  but  at  full  speed ;  and  the  rate  of  his  thought  is 
to  that  of  another  man's  as  the  speed  of  a  railway  to  that  of  a 
waggon  or  the  speed  of  a  telegraph  to  that  of  a  railway.    It  is 
hopeless  to  enjoy  the  charm  or  apprehend  the  gist  of  his  writings 
except  with  a  mind  thoroughly  alert,  an  attention  awake  at  all 
points,  a  spirit  open  and  ready  to  be  kindled  by  the  contact  of  tht 
writer's.    To  do  justice  to  any  book  which  deserves  any  other  sort 
of  justice  than  that  of  the  fire  or  the  waste-paper  basket,  it  is 
necessary  to  read  it  in  a  fit  frame  of  mind ;  and  the  proper  mood 
m  which  to  study  for  the  first  time  a  book  of  Mr.  Browning's  is  the 
freshest,  clearest,  most  active  mood  of  the  mind  in  its  brightest 
and  keenest  hours  of  work." 


In  Sordelh,  besides  these  general  difficulties  which  arise 
from  the  character  of  Browning's  mind,  there  are  special 
difficulties  springing  from  three  different  sources.     First, 
the  obscurity  of  the  external  incidents  of  the  story.     The 
life  of  the  hero  is  bound  up  with  certain  events  of  Italian 
history  in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries.     Browning 
seems  to  assume  that  we  are  as  familiar  with  these  events, 
and  with  the  persons  concerned  in  them,  as  we  are  with 
English  history,  say,  in  the  reign  of  Charles  I.     Whereas, 
m  truth,  the  average  English-speaking  reader  knows  noth' 
mg  more  about  the  historical  events  involved,  than  that 
there  was  a  struggle  between  two  parties,  named  respec- 
tively Guelfs  and  Ghibellines.     Browning.- notwithstanding 


1 '» 


142 


DEVELOPMENT  :    FIRST   PERIOD. 


1   I.     '... 


m.  v 


4.:, 


« 


CI 

y. 
i^ 

* 

'a 

* 


assuming  in  his  reader  almost  as  complete  a  knowledge  of 
the  subject  as  he  himself  possesses,  hurries  awkwardly  and 
impatiently  through  external  details,  and  leaves  but  a  con- 
fused and  imperfect  impression  of  the  relations  between 
the  persons,  and  of  the  sequence  of  events.  This  is  a 
difficulty  which  any  one  can,  with  patience  and  trouble, 
overcome ;  but  it  is  at  the  outset  a  most  irritating  and  dis- 
couraging stumbling-block.  Second,  the  extreme  r  -  len- 
sation.  Into  a  poem  of  above  6ooo  lines.  Browning  .  iS  put 
matter  that  might  have  filled  volumes.  In  fact,  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  in  all  the  books  which  he  has  since  written, 
there  can  be  found  any  of  his  peculiar  ideas  of  which  the 
germ,  at  least,  is  not  contained  in  Sordello.  In  these  pages 
he  gives  the  mental  biography  of  the  hero  with  the  greatest 
minuteness,  sketches  of  other  characters,  a  picture  of  a 
period  of  Italian  history,  a  philosophy  of  life,  of  history,  of 
poetry.  We  cannot  expect  that  our  progress  should  be 
rapid  through  pages  so  full  of  thought.  Third,  the  nature 
of  the  character  and  experience  depicted.  This,  to  which 
reference  has  already  been  made,  is  the  most  potent  cause 
of  difficulty  —  the  exceptional  character  of  Sordello,  and  of 
his  mental  life. 

Now  of  these  three  sources  of  difficulty,  the  first  is  a 
positive  blemish,  a  defect  in  art.  But  it  is  more  than 
doubtful  whether  the  second,  the  condensation,  can  be 
held  to  be  a  fault.  The  initial  obstacle  once  surmounted, 
condensation  is  a  source  of  power  and  attractiveness.  In 
reading  some  of  Browning's  later  works,  one  cannot  but 
wish  he  had  in  them  committed  the  same  error,  if  error 
it  be.  The  third  source  of  obscurity  is  a  necessary  con- 
comitant of  the  subject,  and  no  fault  at  all,  provided  such 
unusual  and  analytic  themes  are  admitted  to  be  fit  subjects 
for  art. 


development:  first  period. 


143 


; 


The  character  of  the  following  abstract  has  beeri  deter- 
mined  by  the  fact  that  its  main  object  is  to  assist  the 
reader  in  overcoming  the  difficulties  in  the  way  of  under- 
standing this  poem.     It  is,  in  the  first  place,  designed  to 
_  make  clear  the  inner  life  of  Sordello,  which  Browning  as- 
serts in  the  preface  to  be  the  main  subject  of  his  poem.     It 
attempts,  therefore,  to  describe  briefly,  but  clearly,  ihe 
successive  mental  phases  through  which  Sordello  passed, 
and  how  each  one  was  developed  out  of  its  predecessors.' 
Accordingly,  external  events;  descriptions,  and  other  pas- 
sages of  a  similar  nature,  are  passed  over  as  lightly  as  is 
compatible  with  this  object.     In  the  second   place,  the 
abstract  is  designed  to  assist  the  reader  of  the  poem  in 
following  the  text  for  himself.     Difficult   passages    are 
therefore  rendered  with  disproportionate  fulness.     Only 
an  annotated  edition  of  the  poem  could  attempt  to  give 
assistance  in  every  case  where  it  is  needed  ;  but  experience 
has  shown  that  the  main  difficulty  lies  in  following  the 
thread  of  thought.     This  once  grasped,  problems  of  con- 
nection and  grammatical  construction  will  be  found  in 
general  to  solve  themselves. 


144 


SORDELLO. 


[PP-  SI-S9. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


ANALYSIS  OF  SORDELLC. 


.1 


Book  I, 

The  poet,  after  stating  that  his  theme  is  to  be  the  for- 
tunes of  Sordello,  half  apologizes  for  the  narrative  form  in 
which  he  is  to  present  it.  He  himself  would  prefer  the 
dramatic  form,  in  which  the  poet  does  not  appear  in  per- 
son; but,  for  the  sake  of  clearness,  is  content  on  this 
occasion  to  take  his  position  as  showman.  The  audience 
whom  he  is  addressing,  he  goes  on  to  explain,  is  an  imagi- 
nary one,  composed  of  the  famous  dead,  although  he  does 
expect  a  few  friendly  hearers  among  the  living. 

Suddenly  the  poet  summons,  from  out  the  past,  a  scene 
in  Verona,  on  an  autumn  evening,  six  hundred  years  ago. 
The  city,  which  belongs  to  the  Guelf  faction,  is  astir  with 
excitement  over  the  news  that  its  ruler.  Count  Richard  of 
Saint  Boniface,  has  been  made  captive  by  Taurello  Salin- 
guerra,  chief  adviser  and  lieutenant  of  Eccelino  da  Romano, 
surnamed  the  Monk,  who  is  the  most  prominent  of  the 
Ghibelline  leaders.  Richard,  leagued  with  Azzo,  Lord  of 
Este,  had  attempted  to  drive  Salinguerra  from  his  town  of 
Ferrara,  and,  on  the  eve  of  succeeding,  had  been  entrapped. 

The  poet  then  figuratively  gives  his  view  of  the  charac- 
ter of  these  two  factions.  The  Ghibellines  support  the 
Emperor,  who  maintains  his  influence  in  Italy  by  a  number 
of  feudal  barons  scattered  through  the  land,  who,  like  a 
group  of  rocks  in  the  sea,  dominate  over  their  surround- 


pp.  60-69.] 


SOKDEI.I.O. 


145 


in<rs.      The  tendencies  of  the  Ghibcllines  arc,  therefore, 
aristocratic.     The  Giiclfs,  on  the  other  hand,  rather  repre- 
sent progressive  and  democratic  tendencies  ;  ami  the  poet 
compares  them  to  chokeweed,  fast  covering  the  sea  with 
one  level   mantle,  and   even   threatening   to   overrun   and 
confound  the  aristocratic  rocks.    The  growth  of  the  Guelfs 
is  the  more  rapid  from  the  sunlight  of  the  I'apacy,  which 
favors  this  party.      Here  follows  a  sketch  of  the  family  of 
Kcelin  ;  then  the  poet  returns  to  the  scene  at  Verona,  and 
hitroduces  us  into  a  chamber  of  the  palace,  where  Sordello 
is  sitting,  buried  in  thought,  having  just  had  an  interview 
with  I'alma,  daughter  of  !•  celin.      In  Sordello  [an  historical 
pensonage,  although  little  is  known  of  him  besides  the  fact 
that  he  was  a  minstrel  who  lived  at  this  time],  JJrowning 
sees  a  forerunner  of  Dante,  in  whom  his  fame  and  work 
have  been  lost. 

In  this  introductory  scene  the  poet,  after  the  old  rule, 
rushes  vi  mcdias  res ;  but  the  incursion  does  not  attain  the 
purpose  on  which  the  rule  was  based,  does  not  interest  us 
in  the  characters.  We  cannot  even  understand  the  scene 
until  we  get  much  farther  on  in  the  poem.  The  poet 
leaves  the  scene  as  abruptly  as  he  introduced  it  and  be- 
gins at  the  beginning  of  his  story. 

Near  Mantua  stood  the  castle  of  Goito.  the  residence  of 
Adelaide,  wife  of  Ecelin,  and  here  Sordello  spent  his  child- 
hood. He  was  a  slender  boy  in  whose  features  one  mi-ht 
trace  the  characteristics  of  a  rich  and  sensitive  nature 
He  was  of  the  poet-type,  and  this  type  falls  into  two 
classes.  First,  there  is  the  receptive  and  contemplative 
class.  These,  overpowered  by  the  beauty  of  the  universe 
lose  and  forget  themselves  in  their  admiration;  hence  love 
IS  the  predominating  characteristic  of  such  spirits  Hy 
their  sympathetic  imagination,  they  enter  into  the  life  and 


146 


SORDELLO. 


[pp.  70-77. 


H 

mW 

'.' 

•i 

*» 

». 

Iv   c 

w.- 

^ 

1 

" 

'"1 

:.!| 

H 

joy  of  everything  about  them  ;  and,  having  thus  exhausted 
individual  embodiments  of  joy  and  beauty,  rise  to  the  con- 
ception of  absolute  loveliness,  i.e.  to  the  conception  of 
God.  But,  for  themselves,  they  forget  their  own  individu- 
ality, are  content  to  be  merely  receptive  and  contempla- 
tive, not  active.  The  second  class  of  poetic  natures  are 
active  and  aggressive.  For  these,  the  exterior  world 
merely  serves  to  call  into  activity  and  consciousness  dor- 
mant faculties.  The  outer  world  seems  to  them  to  exist 
merely  for  the  sake  of  their  own  development.  The  sub- 
jective element  which  they  contribute  to  their  objective 
experience,  they  consider  to  be  by  far  the  higher  and 
nobler  factor.  The  world  affords  simple  and  imperfect 
embodiments,  important  only  as  furnishing  the  foundation 
from  which  the  soul  rises  to  the  conception  of  the  abso- 
lute ;  such  spirits  are  the  pioneers  of  the  race,  who  vindi- 
cate for  men  stage  after  stage  in  the  upward  progress ; 
upon  these  stages,  then,  in  process  of  time,  the  rank  and 
file  f^Wi  enter. 

Persons  of  this  second  class  are  exposed  to  two  opposite 
dangers  :  on  the  one  hand,  feeling  their  superiority  to  the 
world  of  time,  they  may  scorn  to  exert  themselves ;  and  so 
sink  into  supineness.  Qn  the  other  hand,  they  may 
attempt  to  force  too  much  out  of  the  present  life,  attempt 
to  get  complete  satisfaction  for  the  aspirations  of  the  soul, 
which  can  only  be  satisfied  by  the  infinite,  unattainable 
here.  This,  it  is  indicated,  is  the  error  into  which  Bor- 
dello falls ;  and  we  are  to  see  in  the  poem  how  it  gradually 
extended  itself  over,  and  ruined  his  life. 

As  yet,  however,  he  is  but  a  child  engrossed  in  childish 
fancies.  He  imagines  in  the  various  objects  about  him,  — 
plants,  trees,  etc.,  —  a  life  like  his  own.  He  thus  exists  in 
that  childish  world  of  fancy  which  real  life,  with  its  cares 


[pp.  70-77. 

exhausted 
3  the  con- 
eption  of 
.  individu- 
ontempla- 
itures  are 
ior  world 
mess  dor- 
1  to  exist 
The  sub- 
objective 
igher  and 
imperfect 
oundation 
the  abso- 
who  vindi- 
progress ; 
rank  and 

o  opposite 
rity  to  the 
js ;  and  so 
they  may 
e,  attempt 
f  the  soul, 
lattainable 
vhich  Sor- 
t  gradually 

in  childish 
)ut  him,  — 
IS  exists  in 
h  its  cares 


pp.  78-8X.] 


BORDELLO. 


147 


I 


and  pafns,  commonly  soon  shatters;  but  with  Sordello, 
almost  completely  shut  out  from  the  world  and  human 
companionship,  this  phase  of  existence  lasted  longer  than 
usual.  With  no  companions,  except  these  imaginary  ones, 
he  naturally  grew  up  without  any  sense  of  the  claims  of 
others  upon  him, — wholly  selfish  and  egoistic* 

In  time,  however,  the  fanciful  halo  with  which  he  had 
surrounded  these  various  objects  vanished.  He  felt  that 
he  was  alone ;  a  poppy  was,  after  all,  only  a  poppy,  and 
could  not  sympathize  with  him.  He  desires  now  to  be  no 
longer  merely  contemplative,  but  to  be  something  himself, 
and  to  have  his  own  qualities  recognized  by  a  world  out- 
side of  him.  This  dissatisfaction,  says  Browning,  with  a 
life  of  sympathy  and  contemplation,  indicates  that  Sordello 
was  not  one  of  those  loving  souls  described  as  belonging 
to  the  first  class  of  poetic  natures.  Sordello  belongs,  then, 
to  the  second  class;  and  such  spirits  not  only  claim  to  be 
something  themselves,  but  also  feel  a  need  to  have  this 
claim  acknowledged  by  their  fellow-creatures."  Now,  as 
Sordello  has  no  real  world  of  fellow-creatures  about  him, 
he  has  recourse  to  imagination,  and  creates  a  world  of  men 
and  women,  using  as  the  puppets  of  his  fancy  all  the  peo- 
pie  whom  he  knows,  or  has  heard,  or  read  of.  Unlike  the 
former  creatures  of  his  fancy,  —  the  poppy,  etc.,  — each  of 
these  new  figures  has  a  character  of  his  own.    They  are 

1  Naddo,  mentioned  here,  subsequently  appears  in  the  poem  as  Sordello's 
friend  and  adviser.  But  here  and  elsewhere  he  is  employed  as  the  representa- 
tive of  the  Philistines,  and  in  his  mouth  are  put  the  comments  of  superficial 
wisdom. 

"  In  this  passage  the  word  "  will "  is  used  In  a  peculiar,  and  somewhat  unde- 
finable,  sense,  in  which  it  reappears  throughout  the  poem.  It  means  the 
power  in  virtue  of  which  we  feel  potcmially  an  experience  or  quality;  i.e. 
while  one  may  not  actually  realize  a  thing,  be  feels  that  he  has  the  spiritual 
capacity  to  realize  it.    Cf.  concluding  remarks  la  last  chapter. 


148 


SORDELLO. 


[pp.  8a-88. 


mi 

a 

1.1 


not,  accordingly,  so  completely  under  his  control  as  his 
former  creatures.  The  public  opinion,  as  it  were,  of  this 
fanciful  world,  which  is  based  on  the  real  world,  values 
qualities  which  the  boy  Sordello  would  not  naturally  prize. 
In  identifying  himself  with  the  life  of  his  various  figures, 
then,  he  enters  on  a  life  foreign  to  his  own,  and  accepts 
not  his  own,  but  their  estimates  of  things. 

However,  he  sets  about  living,  in  fancy,  the  life  of  his 
characters  in  turn.  Whatever  they  do,  he,  by  the  help  of 
imagination,  does.  He  hears,  for  example,  that  Ecelin  has 
marched  through  *the  Trentine  pass.  Sordello  imitates 
him  by  climbing  some  steep  bank.  But  his  attempted 
realizations  of  his  characters'  actions  are  not  always  so 
successful.  He  cannot  imitate  Ecelin's  feats  with  the 
sword ;  and  the  reason,  he  finds,  is  that  he  is  yet  a  boy. 
He  is  thus  forced,  instead  of  living  the  life  of  his  heroes 
now,  to  imagine  himself  at  some  future  time  living  it.  He 
thus  advances  a  step  towards  reality.  Instead  of  the  child- 
ish freak  of  fancying  that  he  is  so  and  so,  he  imagines  that 
he  wt/l  be  so  and  so,  when  he  reaches  manhood.  A  second 
difficulty  next  confronts  him :  it  is  impossible  to  be  all 
these  people  when  he  becomes  a  man ;  so  he  proceeds  to 
select  the  finest  qualities  of  each,  and  compress  them  into 
one  individual,  which  individual  he  determines  to  become. 
He  thus  forms  an  ideal.  And  the  ideal  which  suits  a 
nature  so  rich  as  Sordello's  must  be  a  very  broad  one. 
He  will  be  no  mere  fighter  like  Frederick,  and  no  mere 
poet  like  Eglamour ;  but  both  combined.  In  short,  the 
ideal  he  formed  corresponded  to  that  ideal  which  the 
Greeks  named  Apollo. 

Henceforward  he  lives  in  fancy  the  life  of  Apollo,  slays 
Pythons,  chooses,  as  his  Daphne,  Palma,  the  daughter  of 
Ecelin  and  Adelaide,  of  whom  he  has  caught  glimpses  in 


pp.  89-97.1 


SORDELLO. 


149 


Goito.  But  he  hears  rumors  of  a  rival.  Count  Richard, 
it  is  said,  is  to  be  betrothed  to  Palma.  Time  goes  on ; 
Sordello  is  on  the  verge  of  manhood,  and  grows  sick  of  a 
world  of  mere  fancies. 


i 


Book  II. 

Saddened  by  the  thought  of  his  actual  insignificance,  in 
such  strong  contrast  with  his  dreams,  Sordello  was  wan- 
dering, one  spring  morning,  over  the  marshes  towards 
Mantua,  occupied  in  Apollo  fancies,  when  unexpectedly 
he  was  roused  from  his  reveries  by  coming  on  a  crowd  of 
people.     It  was  a  court  of  Love »  over  which  Adelaide  and 
Palma  presided.     Eglamour,  a  minstrel  who  represents  the 
suitor  Richard,  stepped  forward  and  sang  the  praises  of  an 
imaginary  Elys.     To  Sordello,  as  he  listened,  the  song 
seemed  a  version  of  the  story  of  Apollo  and  Daphne,  over 
which  he  had  so  long  brooded.     Smitten  by  sudden  inspi- 
ration, Sordello  steps  forward  as   Eglamour  closes,  and 
smgs  his  own  version  of  the  theme.     It  is  received  with 
applause,  and  Palma  bestows  the  prize  on  Sordello. 

For  a  week,  Sordello  is  lost  in  recalling  and  living  over 
every  detail  of  this  scene.  He  is  astonished  at  the  effect 
of  his  song.  He  valued  the  feeling  that  gave  birth  to  the 
song,  not  the  song  itself ;  but  his  audience  seemed  to  have 
found  an  independent  beauty  and  value  in  the  song  itself 
He  concludes,  therefore,  that  he  possesses  a  faculty  which 
they  want.    "  Some  perhaps  altogether  lack  the  imaginative 

»  A  r«rt  of  poetic  tournament  of  the  Middle  Ages,  in  which  minstrels  vied 
m  showing  their  poetic  power  by  singing  the  pr.-,ises  of  some  lady.  It  was 
customary  for  the  competitors  to  accept  the  theme  of  the  poet  who  began  the 
tournament,  and  to  attempt  to  improve  upon  hi,  treatment,  as  Sordello  does 
in  the  present  case. 


ISO 


SORDELLO. 


[pp.  97-105. 


«  .  ' 

1.1 


faculty ;  others,  like  Eglamour,  find  in  their  imagination 
something  higher  than  themselves.  It  is  only  through 
poetry  that  their  dim  fancies  win  distinctness  and  power," 

Meanwhile  Eglamour  had  died.  Browning,  doubtless, 
introduces  this  character  and  the  description  of  him  which 
we  find  here,  to  serve  as  a  contrast  to  Sordello,  and  as  an 
illustration  of  a  poet  of  the  first  class  spoken  of  earlier. 
Poetry  with  Eglamour  was  not  a  mere  outlet  wherein  his 
spirit  found  a  way  of  exercising  itself,  but  it  was  the 
one  sole  end  to  which  his  whole  life  and  power  were 
directed.  He  regarded  his  poetry  as  something  higher 
than  himself.  He  knew  (and  was  satisfied  with  the  fact) 
that  his  poetry  was  his  only  claim  to  superiority  among  his 
fellow-men.  So,  when  he  found  his  art  surpassed  by  Sor- 
dello, the  whole  aim  of  his  life  was  shattered.  He  dies, 
and  Sordello  honors  him  at  his  tomb. 

This  first  collision  with  the  outside  world,  and  the  per- 
ception at  which  he  had  arrived,  of  how  he  differs  from 
mankind  in  general,  in  virtue  of  his  imaginative  and  poetic 
power,  stimulated  in  Sordello  the  desire  to  know  some- 
thing more  of  his  own  history.  He  learns  that  he  is  the 
son  of  a  poor  archer,  Elcorte,  who  had  perished  in  saving 
a  child  of  Ecelin's,  Adelaide  had  accordingly  taken  the 
young  Sordello  under  her  protection,  and  caused  him  to  be 
nurtured  in  Goito,  This  discovery  of  the  lowness  of  his 
origin  and  fortunes  showed  him  the  impossibility  of  his 
ever  realizing  the  Apollo  ideal.  He  accordingly  formed  a 
new  ideal.  This  is  a  peculiar  one,  and  very  characteristic 
of  Browning's  way  of  thinking. 

Hitherto  Sordello  had  been  waiting  for  the  "equipment 
of  strength,  grace,  wisdom, "  requisite  for  fiis  realization 
of  the  Apollo  ideal.  Now  he  sees  that  this  equipment 
will  never  arrive  ;  that  the  realization  of  his  aspirations  is 


I.  97-"S. 


pp.  ios-ioy.J 


SORDELLO. 


'51 


nation 
irough 
»wer." 
btless, 

which 
1  as  an 
earlier, 
ein  his 
as  the 
r  were 

higher 
ie  fact) 
ong  his 
by  Sor- 
[e  dies, 

;he  per- 
rs  from 
]  poetic 
ir  some- 
e  is  the 
I  saving 
ten  the 
m  to  be 
of  his 
of  his 
jrmed  a 
:teristic 

liptnent 
ilization 
jipment 
itions  is 


hampered  by  physical  and  social  conditions  imposed  upon 
him  from  without.  His  new  ideal  adjusts  itself  to  this 
fact.  It  is  not  in  any  way  narrower  or  less  comprehensive 
than  the  old ;  the  only  difference  lies  in  the  way  in  which 
he  proposes  to  realize  it.  He  will  not  actually,  but  poten- 
tially, be  Apollo.  Ordinary  men  have  simple  aims.  A 
man,  for  example,  aims  at  knowledge  ;  that  aim  may  be 
attained,  but  in  attaining  it  the  man  cramps  his  other  fac- 
ulties. His  knowledge  may  be  great,  but  he  will  not  be 
great  as  a  man  of  action,  —  a  man  of  the  world.  Bor- 
dello's aim  is  complex.  He  desires  that  every  side  of  his 
nature  should  be  fully  developed.  He  cannot,  then,  actu- 
ally realize  any  aspiration  ;  for  in  doing  so  he  would  narrow 
himself,  and  thus  defeat  his  aim.  Here  is  a  dilemma  from 
which  he  escapes  through  observing  that  self-consciousness 
is  the  highest  thing  in  the  universe.  Therein  it  is,  as  we 
saw  in  Cleon,  that  men  surpass  the  brutes.  He  will,  there- 
fore, realize  all  his  aspirations  in  his  inner  consciousness, 
in  his  imagination,  in  his  feeling  that  he  is  potentially  all 
these  things,  i>.,  in  what  Browning's  peculiar  dialect 
styles  "will." 

But  already  in  the  description  of  natures  such  as  Sor- 
dello's  i^ide  p.  80  of  the  poem).  Browning  stated  that 
they  had  an  instinctive  need  that  their  claims  should  be 
recognized  by  the  external  world.  Sordello,  therefore, 
must  gain  this  recognition  from  the  world ;  and  he  pro- 
poses to  get  this  through  his  poetic  gifts.  In  his  poems 
he  would  present  an  exhaustive  picture  of  life ;  he  would 
represent  statesman,  warrior,  thinker,  etc.;  and  men,  finding 
these  in  his  poetry,  would  perceive  and  acknowledge  that 
Sordello  himself  was  capable  of  being  all  of  these. 

Sordello  now  takes  up  his  residence  in  Mantua,  whither 
his  fame  as  a  poet  had  preceded  him.     As  he  did  not  love 


•5: 


SORDELLO. 


fpp.  no  115 


i.'i 

i 
It    ■ 

Li      ' 
W-. 


his  art  for  his  art's  sake,  but  only  for  tho  position  it  gave 
him  among  men.  he  was  content  with  somewhat  slipshod 
and  superficial  work.  lie  auo,jicd  the  traditional  trouba- 
dour poetry ;  and,  accordingly,  his  characters  were  rather 
personifications  of  qualities  than  real  men  and  women. 
However,  he  was  successful,  and  Sordello  tasted  some  of 
the  sweets  of  fame.  Opportunities  for  entering  on  a  life 
of  pleasure  presented  themselves,  and  he  found  it  difficult 
to  resist  the  temptation  to  seize  these  actual  petty  joys,  — 
yet  to  do  so  would  be  fatal  to  the  universality  of  his 
aims. 

To  escape  this  danger,  he  devotes  himself  with  more 
earnestness  to  poetry,  and  conceives  an  advance  in  poetic 
art.  Instead  of  the  personifications  of  qualities,  which  we 
find  in  the  poetry  of  that  time,  he  proposes  to  present  real 
men  and  women.  For  this  purpose,  he  finds  the  literary 
language  inadequate,  and  invigorates  it  by  the  help  of  the 
popular  idiom.  But  there  is  a  still  more  serious  difficulty. 
Having  conceived  his  characters,  he  finds  it  impossible  to 
represent  these  conceptions  in  their  wholeness,  by  the  ana- 
lytic presentations  of  language ;  and  his  readers  in  turn 
are  unable  to  reverse  the  process,  and  piece  the  analytic 
presentation  into  the  wholeness  of  the  original  conception.* 
And  so  Sordello  says  to  himself :  "  As  far  as  my  own  sat- 
isfaction goes,  conception  is  sufficient ;  I  need  not  express 
my  conceptions  in  language  which  only  mars  them.  As 
for  the  world,  it  is  content  with  the  old  style  of  poetry, 
and  not  aware  that  there  is  a  better.     Why,  then,  should  I 


*  Sordello's  position  here  is  so  closely  analogous  to  that  of  Browning,       t 
one  ca-not  bi't  see  here  a  picture  of  the  riifficulties  which  Browning  has  hiiu 
self  '•■    0.  ntered  in  expressing  his  ideas.     In  this  light  the  original  passage  is 
of  ri".  .-  nterest. 


pp.  IIS  ««7j 


SORULLLO. 


»53 


harass  myself  to  produce  a  something  higher  than  the 
world  desires  or  conceives  ? " 

So  Sordcllo  contents  himself  with  writing  a  poem,  in  the 
old  style,  on  Montfort,  the  Crusader.  But  now  his  plan  of 
life  is  confronted  hy  an  unexpected  disappointment.  The 
public,  although  they  admire  his  poem,  do  not  consider 
him  a  potential  M«)ntfort.  They  praise  the  hero  Montfort, 
hut  do  not  at  all  consider  Sordello  such  a  hero.  He  is  "a 
mere  singer,  ugly,  stunted,  weak."  This  makes  the  poet 
angrily  turn  on  the  public  itself.  The  public  is  so  unfit 
to  judge,  that  he  cares  not  for  its  praise  and  blame.  To 
make  the  praise  of  these  Mantuans  of  any  value  to  him, 
he  finds  he  has  been  bestowing  on  them  imaginary  quali- 
ties ;  just  as  long  ago  he  had  endowed  trees  and  poppies 
with  imaginary  qualities,  in  order  that  they  might  be  fit 
companions. 

Amidst  such  surroundings  and  difficulties  months  and 
years  went  by,  and  the  confusion  in  Sordello's  soul  grew 
worse  and  worse.  The  natural  man  in  him  was  eager  to 
seize  what  actual  joys  were  within  reach,  but  was  prevented 
by  the  Poet-side  of  Sordello  —  the  side  which  aspired  to 
the  ideal — which  feared  the  cramping  effect  of  such  partial 
realization  on  the  development  of  the  whole  soul.  Again  the 
Poet-side  constructed,  in  fancy,  splendid  and  perfect  poems, 
but  was  prevented  executing  them  by  the  natural  man, 
which  desired  immediate  reward,  and  hence,  would  permit 
Sordello  to  write  nothing  but  the  conventional  poetry  of 
the  day,  which  most  readily  brought  praise  and  profit. 

So  Sordello  was  torn  asunder  by  an  inward  struggle  — 
whether  he  should  persist  in  his  ideal  with  the  hope  of 
ultimately  forcing  the  world  to  recognize  his  universal 
capacities,  or  plunge  himself  heartily  into  actual  life,  and 
into    jch  partial  realizations  as  were  within  his  reach. 


'54 


SORDELLO. 


[pp.  118-123. 


Si. 


Ct'P 


Meanwhile,  he  must,  in  a  certain  measure,  actually  live. 
He  had  both  to  act  and  to  speak.  He  found  the  easiest 
course  was  to  accept  provisionally  the  conventional  life  of  a 
minstrel.  He  did  just  as  others  did.  So,  in  talking,  he 
uttered  every -day  commonplaces.  For  he  found  it  impos- 
sible in  ordinary  conversation  to  express  his  own  ideas, 
since  every  truth  appeared  to  him  in  all  its  depth  and 
many-sidedness.  Each  subject  was  too  complex,  too  inex- 
tricably intertwined  with  all  others,  too  conditioned,  to  be 
disposed  of  in  any  short  categorical  statement.  Thus, 
unable  to  enter  earnestly  into  the  life  about  him,  he  con- 
tinued to  take  less  and  less  interest  in  it. 

In  poetry  he  fared  little  better.  All  that  he  cared  to 
do  was  to  maintain  his  position  in  the  popular  estimation 
above  his  rivals,  and  this  he  found  no  easy  task.  Their 
superficial  poetry  was  in  harmony  with  their  superficial 
views  of  things.  But  Sordello  spoiled  surface  beauty,  by 
his  inevitable  tendency  to  reach  to  the  root  of  the  matter. 
His  friend  Naddo,  observing  the  fault,  ventn.red  to  give 
advice.  "Sordello  ought  not  to  introduce  deas  peculiar 
to  himself.  Poetry  ought  to  be  based  on  the  common 
sense  and  common  ideas  of  mankind.  The  poet  should 
not  pour  forth  the  fire  that  burns  in  his  breast ;  that  prob- 
ably will  not  please  his  audience ;  what  they  like  is  calm 
and  repose,  li  ue  wishes  to  please,  he  must  not  rise  higher 
than  his  audience.  Moreover,  he  should  be  content  with 
a  poet's  fame,  and  not,  like  Sordello,  wish  to  be  considered 
a  great  man  besides."  ^  Sordello  attempted  to  follow  this 
advice,  and  adapt  himself  to  the  popular  taste;  but  the 
conventional  point  of  view  which  he  attempted  thus  to 


'  It  will  be  noted  that  this  advice  of  Naddo's  contains  a  great  deal  of  the 
criticism  which  has  been  directed  at  Browning,  and  also  an  implied  defence. 


pp.  123-128.] 


SORDELLO. 


'55 


present,  not  being  his  natural   one,  he  was  continually 
falling  out  of  his  role  and  making  blunders. 

For  this  unsatisfactory  external  life,  he  tried  to  find 
compensation  in  the  inner  life  of  imagination.  But  this, 
too,  failed  him.  He  could  not  control  his  imagination  ; 
with  whatever  character  he  clothed  himself  in  fancy,  it 
always  changed  gradually  into  Apollo. 

Here  Browning  leaves  his  hero  for  a  moment,  in  order 
to  tell  of  some  events  which  were  happening  in  the  outside 
world,  and  were  destined  to  influence  his  fate.     Adelaide, 
the  strong-minded  wife  of  Ecelin,  had  died ;  and  Ecelin! 
no  longer  under  her  influence,  began  to  think  of  the  next 
world,  and,  remorsefully,  of  the  bloodshed  he  had  helped 
to  cause  in  this.     He  attempts  to  become  a  peacemaker ; 
marries  his  two  sons  to  relatives  of  the  Guelf  leaders,  and 
purposes  wedding  his  daughter  Palma  to  Richard.      His 
right-hand  man,  Taurello  Salinguerra,  who  was  on  the  eve 
of  starting  for  the  East,  hastens  back  to  Ecelin  when  the 
news  reaches  him,  and  tries  to  bring  his  master  into  the  old 
course,— but  unsuccessfully.    Taurello  now  announces  his 
intention  of  coming  to  Mantua.     The  Mantuans  .prepare 
to  welcome  him,  and  it  is  Sordello's  duty  to  write  a  poem 
for  the  occasion.     But  he  feels  himself  unequal  and  indis- 
posed to  the  task.     He  wanders  away  from  the  city,  sunk 
m  reflections.     "Why  should  he  fret  about  verses  and 
success.?     Taurello  was  praised  for  hiding  his  chagrin 
at  his  failure  to  influence   Ecelin.      That  was   all    that 
Taurello's  success  amounted   to!      Perhaps  all  apparent 
success  is  equally  hollow."     Unconsciously  Sordello  had 
taken  the  road  to  Goito,  and  waices  from  his  reverie  to 
find  himself  there.     He  suddenly  feels   how  hateful  and 
crarnping  his  Mantuan  life  had  been ;  in  Goito  he  feels 
the  old  life  of   Apollo  dreanjs  rushing  back  upon   him 


156 


SORDELLO. 


fpp.  130-134. 


.1 

|3 

"«.,■ 
k 

Wo,- 
li      K 


>■  i, 


He  reflects  over  the  last  phase  of  his  spiritual  existence. 
It  had  begun  in  the  discovery  that  his  body  —  i.e.  the 
material  means  at  his  disposal  —  was  insufficient  to  realize 
the  needs  of  his  soul.  He  had  therefore  substituted  for 
the  attempt  to  realize  all  the  capacities  of  his  nature  in 
actual  experience,  a  demonstration  of  these  capacities 
through  making  men  conscious  of  them.  This,  too,  had 
failed.  Was  it  then  the  "  will "  {i.e.  he  himself)  that  was 
at  fault  ? 

Book  HI. 

A  period  of  reaction  now  sets  in  ;  the  life  Sorjlello  had 
lived  at  Mantua,  becomes  to  him  like  a  dim  and  distant 
dream.  He  abjures  the  task  which  he  had  attempted 
during  that  period,  —  viz.  that  of  revealing  himself.  He 
now  feels  that  it  is  impossible  to  do  so  fully,  —  and  that 
no  revelation  is  better  than  ah  incomplete  one.  He  gives 
up  as  hopeless  the  idea  of  passing  through  the  experiences 
of  all  mankind,  without  doing  violence  to  his  own  nature. 
Henceforth,  he  will  be  himself.  The  only  activities  which 
he  will  hereafter  attempt  to  follow,  are  those  so  foreign  to 
his  nature,  as  not  to  tempt  him,  in  realizing  them,  to  forget 
himself,  and  to  narrow  his  development.^ 

This  state  of  mind  continued  through  a  year  of  solitary 
life  at  Goito.  It  was,  however,  a  state  quite  out  of  har- 
mony with  Sordello's  fundamental  character,  and  was 
produced  by  the  exhaustion  of  reaction  and  defeat.  Even 
during  its  continuance,  he  was  half  conscious  of  its  tem- 
porary and  unreal  nature ;  and  as  the  reaction  passed  off, 
the  longing  for  activity  returned.     But  alas !  as  a  yearning 

^  Poetic  activity,  for  example,  was  so  closely  akin  with  his  nature  that,  in 
following  it  out,  Sordello  had  almost  forgotten  the  higher  duty  of  giving  full 
scope  to  all  his  capacities  as  a  man.     Poetic  activity  must  therefore  be  eschewed. 


PP-  »3S-i40.] 


SORDELLO. 


157 


for  real  life  seizes  him  with  unexampled  force,  with  it  the 
terrible  consciousness  comes  that  youth  — the  time  for 
love,  for  pleasure,  for  adventure  —  has  gone  by.     From 
these  he  had  abstained,  fearing  to  cramp  his  development. 
He  had  considered  these  activities  —  loves,  joys,  etc.,  — in 
their  completeness,  the  ultimate  end  of  life ;  but  to  no  one 
of  them  ought  he  to  abandon  himself  until  all  could  be 
realized.     He  now  perceives  that  they  are  not  the  end,  but 
the  means;  — that  his  nature  and  life  had  been  impover- 
ished  through  lack  of   this  real  experience.      Ordinary 
people  have  limited  natures.     There  are  things  outside 
them  for  which   they  have  no  sympathy  or  comprehen- 
sion.     Their  happiness  lies  in  learning  to  understand  and 
sympathize  with  these;  they  tb'is  broaden  their  own  na- 
ture.     Sordello's   sympathy,   on  the  other  hand,   is  all- 
embracmg;  he  is  capable  of  entering  into  all  forms  of 
actmty.i    His  happiness  must  be  found  in  actually  doing 
so.     In  other  words,  whereas  he  had  hitherto  eschewed 
experience  in  order,  first,  to  be  himself,  he  now  finds  that 
m  order  to  be  himself,  he  must  first  live.     He  ought,  there- 
fore, m  Mantua  to  have  embraced  every  opportunity  of 
activity  which  presented  itself.^    His  task,  as  a  poet,  had 
been  to  observe  and  record  his  observations;  but  his  true 
task,  as  a  man.  should  have  been  to  penetrate  more  deeply 
mto  the  mysteiy  of  things  through  the  light  of  actual, 
individual  experience. 

Youth  had  gone;  as  yet  however  only  the  noon  of  life 
had  been  reached ;  he  resolves  to  make  the  most  of  the  time 
that  remains.     It  is  too  late  fully  to  develop  himself  by 

pocn!:"'"'"' '"'  ''""•''""  °^  P°^''  °'  ''^  s^'^"'^^  ^-^'  PP-  71-72  of  this 

absLTrwm  ^  U  h"'  T  'f  "^  '"'  ""'"'  '""'^^'  •"  '""^  "Sht  of  the  above 
aosgract,  wUl,  it  is  hoped,  make  them  clear. 


158 


SORDELLO. 


[pp.  140-153. 


\'i    ■ 


action,  yet  better  partial  development,  than  complete  non- 
entity. 

Just  as  he  embraces  this  resolution,  an  opportunity  pre- 
sents itself  of  returning  to  active  life.  Palma  summons 
her  minstrel  to  her  side.  He  hastens  to  meet  her  in 
Verona,  and  receives  from  her  own  lips,  not  official  com- 
mands, but  an  unexpected  confession.  Just  as  Sordello 
had  abstained  from  action  because  of  lack  of  means  to  carry 
out  his  will,  so  Palma  had  abstained,  because  she  waited 
for  some  "out-soul"  —  some  manly  spirit — to  control  and 
direct  hers.  She  feared  lest,  by  positive  action,  she  might 
develop  an  individuality  not  in  harmony  with  the  expected 
will  which  was  to  rule  hers.  At  the  court  of  Love  she  had 
recognized  in  Sordello  the  embodiment  of  this  will,  and 
thereafter  was  busy  in  nlanning  a  career  for  him  and  her- 
self. The  difficulties  in  the  way  of  making  Sordello  her 
husband,  and  putting  into  his  hands  the  power  of  her 
family,  seemed  at  first  insuperable.  But  a  series  of  events 
had  opened  the  way.  In  the  first  place,  the  scheming  Ade- 
laide (who,  with  Taurello,  had  ruled  Ecelin)  died,  and  on  her 
death-bed  made  important  revelations  to  Palma.  EceUn, 
having  thus  lost  in  his  wife  the  chief  spur  and  support  of 
his  activity,  abandoned  (as  already  narrated)  his  old  policy, 
and  attempted  a  reconciliation  of  the  Guelf  and  Ghibelline 
factions.  Ecelin  in  a  monastery,  his  two  sons  wedded  to 
Guelf  wives,  Taurello  saw  no  hope  for  the  Ghibellines, 
except  in  the  daughter  Palma.  He  proposed  to  her  that 
she  should  come  forward,  as  the  head  of  her  house,  in  the 
Ghibelline  interest.  Palma  consented ;  but,  for  the  present, 
Taurello  and  she  had  agreed  to  keep  their  intentions  secret, 
and  to  profess  acquiescence  in  the  betrothal  of  Palma  to 
the  Guelf  Count  Richard,  which  Ecelin  had  brought  about 
before  his  retire- nent.     But  now  Richard  (as  related  in 


PP-  IS3-IS7.J 


SORDELLO. 


159 


the  opening  of  Bk.  I.)  is  in  Taurello's  hands.  It  is  time 
for  Pahiia  to  declare  herself.  She  proposes  that  she 
and  Sordcllo  should,  in  the  morning,  fice  to  Taurello  in 
Ferrara. 

Palma  quits  Sordello  and  leaves  him  sunk  in  meditation. 
Here  we  at  length  arrive  at  the  scene  with  which  Book  I. 
opens.  That  scene  is  the  turning-point  of  Sordello's  life. 
He  reviews  the  results  of  his  life  so  far.  He  had  discov- 
ered just  before  going  to  Mantua  that  material  condi- 
tions were  insufficient  to  realize  the  aspirations  of  the 
soul.  His  Mantuan  experience  had  taught  him  that  it  was 
impossible  through  his  poetry  to  make  men  recognize  the 
universality  of  his  soul's  aspirations  and  capacities.  His 
year  at  Goito  had  shown  that  he  could  not  remain  content 
with  his  own  consciousness  of  aspirations,  if  neither  real- 
ized by  himself  nor  acknowledged  by  men.  He,  therefore, 
adopts  a  fourth  expedient :  he  will  realize  his  aspirations 
by  using  mankind,  not  as  a  means  to  attest  them,  as  in 
Mantua,  but  as  an  instrument  to  embody  them.  The  pro- 
posals of  Palma  have  rendered  this  possible. 

Here  Browning  suddenly  stops  in  the  midst  of  his  story, 
and,  during  the  remainder  of  Book  HI.,  talks  to  the  reader 
of  himself  and  his  art.  Leaving  his  poem  (as  a  magician 
his  magic  tree)  to  his  imaginary  audience  (vt(/ep.  52,  Bk.  I.), 
he  gives  vent  to  his  own  feelings,  as  he  sits  in  Venice, 
beside  a  lagune. 

It  is  only  in  the  works  of  poets  of  the  First  Class,  such 
as  Eglamour,  that  one  finds  completeness.  In  works  of 
poets  of  the  Sordello  type,  there  is  always  some  flaw,  some 
divergence  from  the  artistic  end,  which  indicates  that  the 
poet  is  not  wholly  wrapped  up  in  his  work,  —  that  it  repre- 
sents merely  an  episode  in  his  life.  Behind  the  poem 
looms  the  knowledge,  and  the  passion  of  the  poet,  tran- 


i6o 


SORDELLO. 


[pp.  157-164. 


11 


scending  anything  therein  exhibited.  The  poem  gives 
merely  a  fragment  of  that  experience  which  is  already 
past ;  the  poet,  ever  developing,  can  never  be  fully  ex- 
pressed in  his  poem. 

Why,  then,  asks  Browning,  should  he  troub'e  himself  to 
complete  this  work  of  his  —  Sordcllof  Who  is  the  mis- 
tress attractive  enough  to  reclaim  him  to  the  active  service 
of  humanity.'  No  individual  woman  such  as  he  sees  before 
him.  No ;  but  humanity  in  general,  whom  he  personifies 
as  a  sad,  dishevelled  ghost.  T.hen  he  proceeds  in  figurative 
language  to  speak  of  himself  as  the  poet  of  humanity.  In 
this  capacity  he  had  been  at  first  tempted  to  present  man- 
kind in  splendid  types,  adorned  with  all  endowments  of 
body  and  spirit.  But  the  evil  and  suffering  in  the  world 
had  forced  themselves  upon  his  attention.  And  so,  the 
splendid  vision  of  humanity  which  he  had  chosen  for  his 
mistress  in  youth,  changed  to  the  sad,  warped  figure  now 
present  to  his  fancy.  Such  care-worn  beauties  are  indeed 
to  his  taste,  and,  for  the  service  of  such,  his  rough  style 
well  fits  him.  Yes,  it  is  the  destiny  of  humanity  to  be 
warped  and  incomplete.  Man  is  not  made  for  perfection 
in  this  life,  as  Sordello  hoped.  On  the  other  hand,  there 
is  good  intermingled  with,  and  at  the  bottom  of,  all  evil. 
The  worst  men  have  an  idea  of  ultimately  arriving  at  good 
through  evil.  It  is,  perhaps,  no  great  advance  to  find  the 
necessity  for  its  existence.  But  it  is  better  to  see  and 
admit  this,  than  to  profess,  as  many  do,  that  they  have 
solved  the  problem  and  know  the  remedy,  yet,  instead  of 
communicating  it,  bestow  some  trifling,  superficial  effu- 
sions on  mankind.  When  a  poet  like  Browning  attempts 
something  deeper,  —  awkwardly,  as  all  innovators,  smites 
the  rock,  and  brings  forth  the  waters  of  true  wisdom  for 
perishing  humanity,  he   finds  he  has   sacrificed   his   own 


pp.  165-168.] 


SORDELLO. 


161 


chances  of  reward,  and  obtained  nothing  in  exchange  ex- 
cept the  title  of  Metaphysic  Poet. 

Browning's  critics  object  to  his  magnifying  his  office  in 
this  way,  but  receive  the  answer  that  it  is  not  he,  but 
they,  who  magnify  the  office.     He  regards  all  work  done 
in  this  life  as  imperfect.     Our  present  existence  is  merely 
a  period  for  getting  the  machine  of  the  soul  into  working 
order.     In  the  next  life  it  will  be  time  enough  to  consider, 
not  the  machine,  but  its  products.     In  this  world,  poets 
who  are  not  blind  or  dumb,  discharge  one  of  three  func- 
tions :  the  worst  tell  their  own  sensations  and  impressions ; 
the  better  present  things  as  they  really  are,— or  rather  in 
aspects  which  are  true  for  men  in  general  and  not,  as  in 
the  previous  case,  true  for  the  individual  merely;  the 
highest  class  of  poets  unfold  a  fuller  and  deeper  significance 
in  things  than  ordinary  men  unaided  could  perceive.     An 
example  of  this  follows.     A  poet  of  the  highest  class  is 
represented  as  explaining  that  which  an  extract  from  a 
poet  of  the  most  superficial  kind  reveals  to  him  —  some- 
thing very  different  from  what  its  author  intended.     The 
imaginary  auditor  admits  that   the  poet   has  penetrated, 
through  the  superficial  appearance,  to  the  gist   of  the 
matter.     Whereupon   the  poet  demands  that  his  auditor 
should  trust  his  revelations  in  cases  where  the  auditor  can- 
not follow  him.* 

Browning  then  addresses  the  critics  who  fail  to  see  any 
utility  in  such  deeper  views  as  those  just  mentioned.  He 
admits  that  this  power  of  insight  is  not  everything,  — that 
it  would  be  better  if  action  could  be  combined  with  insight. 
But  such  perfection  in  a  single  individual  is  reserved  for 

mu  seems  to  be  the  general  sense;  but  the  present  writer  confesses  his 
inabihty  to  foUow  in  detail  the  speech  put  in  the  mouth  of  this  poet  of  the 
Third  Class. 


1 62 


SORDELLO. 


[pp.  169-181. 


t 


«•. 


another  world.  Meanwhile,  it  is  surely  most  expedient 
that  these  *'  Makers-see,"  —  the  poets  who  make  men  see 
more  deeply  and  widely  into  things,  and  so  optn  the  win- 
dows of  heaven,  as  it  were,  —  should  be  diligent  in  their 
function.  Therefore  it  is  that  Browning  writes  this  poem 
of  Sordello,  in  return  for  which  he  anticipates  from  the 
public,  however,  rather  martyrdom  than  reward. 

He  here  makes  a  reference  to  Walter  Savage  Landor, 
who  had  recognized  the  worth  of  his  poetry,  and  to  another 
English  friend,  and  then  returns  to  his  poem,  which,  he 
says,  unfolds  the  fate  of  those  who  attempt  to  escape  the 
limitations  of  earthly  existence,  —  to  discard  the  conditions 
of  our  common  nature,  and  to  satisfy  fully  the  infinite 
aspirations  of  the  soul.  He  warns  his  readers  not  to  be 
repelled  at  the  outset  by  the  unattractive  appearance  of  his 
work;  as  St.  John  was  once  terrified  at  a  picture  of  him- 
selfy  which,  at  first  glance,  he  mistook  for  Satan. 


Book  IV. 

This  book  opens  with  a  description  of  the  wretched  con- 
dition to  which  Ferrara  had  been  reduced  by  the  siege, 
and  of  the  accompanying  horrors.  Next,  the  garden  and 
palace  of  Taurello  there,  built  long  before  for  his  bride, 
Retrude  of  Sicily,  are  described.  Here  we  find  Sordello, 
who,  in  accordance  with  Palma's  plan,  had  escaped  hither 
along  with  her.  What  he  had  seen  of  men  during  this 
journey,  has  already  changed  the  views  which  he  was  enter- 
taining when  we  left  him.  He  had  determined,  we  saw, 
to  use  mankind  as  his  instrument,  —  as  the  body,  so  to 
speak,  which  might  carry  out  the  aspirations  of  his  soul. 
Now,  a  fact  with  regard  to  this  instrument  has  forced 
itself  on  his  attention.     Whereas  formerly  his  thoughts 


"^■1 


pp.  I8I-I89.] 


SORDELLO. 


163 


had  always  been  busied  with  the  leaders  of  mankind,  now 
the  existence  of  the  uncared-for  and  degraded  masses 
impresses  him.  Individually  these  are  insignificant,  but 
collectively  they  are  the  source  of  the  power  and  impor- 
tance of  their  leaders.  Such  then  is  the  instrument  which 
he  must  use  to  embody  his  will ;  but  an  instrument  con- 
sisting of  a  low  and  wretched  multitude  was  unsuited 
to  his  purposes,  was  inadequate  to  realize  his  aspirations. 
He  perceived  that  his  first  task  must  be  to  raise  and 
improve  the  condition  of  men,  and  thus  fit  them  for  his 
purpose.  Only  then  would  he  find  scope  for  the  realiza- 
tion of  the  rarer  qualities  of  his  own  soul.* 

He  must  set  about  the  preparatory  stage  of  improving 
the  condition  of  the  people ;  and,  no  doubt,  he  thinks,  Tau- 
rello,  who  has  the  reputation  of  being  the  people's  friend, 
can  help  him  here.  At  the  same  time,  the  thought  strikes 
him  that  this  very  question  of  how  the  people's  condition 
may  be  best  improved,  must  be  the  basis  of  this  long  and 
bitter  strife  between  Guelfs  and  Ghibellines.  He  hastens 
to  question  Taurello,  but  from  that  interview  g^ts  nothing 
except  a  feeling  of  utter  discouragement  and  helplessness. 
He  wanders  over  Ferrara,  and  the  suffering  which  he  sees, 
serves  to  strengthen  his  new-born  sympathy  for  mankind. 
He  is  recognized  and  ask^rii  to  sing  by  a  camp-fire. 

The  poem  now  turns  to  Taurello  Salinguerra.  The 
Emperor  has  authorized  him  to  appoint  a  leader  for  the 
Imperial  or  Ghibelline  faction,  anc  Taurello  is  in  doubt  as 
to  the  fit  person.     Should  he  confer  this  badge  of  office  on 

»  Observe  how,  through  selfish  motives,  Sonello  ere  makes  the  first  step 
out  of  the  absolute  egotism  which  had  hitherto  characterized  his  existence. 
He  here,  for  the  first  time,  learns  the  great  truth  of  the  solidarity  of  mankind, 
—  that  no  individual,  however  great,  can  rise  above  the  conditions  that  links 
him  with  his  feUow-men,-  that  the  extent  to  which  a  man  can  realize  his  own 
capabilities,  is  dependent  on  the  condition  of  the  -jociety  in  which  he  lives. 


164 


SORDELLO. 


[pp.  189-aoa. 


Ecelin,  or  Ecelin's  son,  or  retain  it  himself?  Nay,  the 
fact  that  Palma  had  singled  out  Sordello  for  her  favor  even 
suggested  the  idea  of  conferring  it  on  him.  Here  Brown- 
ing introduces  a  description  of  Taurello,  and  a  review  of 
his  past  life.  Taurello  is  the  typical  man  of  action,  un- 
troubled by  wide  views,  and  thus  serves  as  a  contrast  to 
Sordello.  His  life  falls  into  a  series  of  periods,  each  end- 
ing in  disappointment.  In  youth  he  had  hoped,  by  mar- 
riage with  the  Guelf  Linguetta,  to  become  supreme  in 
Ferrara.  He  was,  however,  cheated  out  of  his  bride  by 
Azzo,  and  forced  to  flee.  He  then  entered  on  a  new  career 
in  Sicily,  and  won  the  favor  of  Heinrich  (subsequently 
emperor),  and  wedded  a  wife  of  Heinrich's  blood.  But  this 
period  of  prosperity  comes  to  an  end  with  the  loss  of  wife 
and  child  at  the  burning  of  Vicenza.  In  the  third  period, 
which  follows,  having  no  children  to  leave  his  power  to,  he 
seemed  to  have  lost  personal  ambition,  and  devoted  him- 
self to  the  interests  of  Ecelin  and  the  Ghibellinos.  His 
life  meanwhile  had  been  full  of  adventure ;  and  though  he 
had  no  ideal  of  universal  development,  the  many-sidedness 
of  his  accomplishments  puts  Sordello  to  shame.  Nor  did 
he  care,  as  Sordello  had  done,  to  display  himself.  Pro- 
vided he  could  attain  his  practical  ends,  and  use  men  as 
hi''  instruments,  he  was  indifferent  as  to  whether  or  not 
they  recognized  his  ability.  In  consequence  he  was  often 
considered  shallow.  Now,  for  the  third  time,  Taurello's 
life-plans  we.-?  shattered  by  Ecelin's  r^tiremen^  and  deser- 
tion of  the  cause. 

Taurello,  in  his  meditations,,  contrasts  Ecelin  as  he  was, 
with  Ecelin  as  he  is ;  lives  over  again  the  terrible  scene  in 
which  he  himself  lost  :vife  and  child,  and  finally  comes 
back  to  the  question  of  who  is  the  fit  person  to  receive  the 
Emperor's  badge.     He  is  conscious  that  his  owri  natural 


pp.  aoa-aij.] 


SORDELLO. 


165 


abilities  mark  him  out  for  the  position.  On  the  other 
hand,  Kcelin,  in  virtue  of  his  rank,  is  the  natural  head  of 
the  party.  Why  should  Taurcllo  involve  himself  in  new 
troubles  by  taking  the  office  upon  himself?  In  a  few 
short  years  he  will  be  forgotten.  The  trifling  songs  of 
the  minstrel  give  a  surer  hold  on  fame  than  his  own 
great  deeds.  Why  should  he  prove  false  to  the  family  of 
Romano  for  the  bauble  of  power .' 

Then,  practical  man  that  he  is,  Taurello  turns  from  these 
wider  questions  with  whi-h  he  had  been  amusing  hims^-lf, 
to  the  pressing  and  practical  one  of  what  he  is  to  do  with 
his  prisoner,  Richard.  In  this  narrowness  of  view  and 
aim  lies  his  advantage  over  the  visionary  Sordello. 

Meanwhile,  Sordello  was  questioning  Palma  as  to  the 
cause  for  which  Guelf  contended  against  Ghibelline,  and 
found  that  neither  party  aimed  at  the  people's  good.  The 
motives  which  actuate  the  leaders  are  utterly  selfish  and 
ignoble.  Whereupon  Sordello's  good  opinion  of  himself 
returns.  He,  indeed,  has  done  nothing;  but  Taurello  and 
the  rest,  worse  than  nothing.  To  Sordello  alone  has 
occurred  the  idea  of  serving  the  people.  The  question 
now  is  —  How  ? 

A  chance  incident  suggests  the  answer.  A  soldier 
comes  to  ask  Sordello  for  a  ballad  on  the  subject  of 
Crescentius  Momentanus.  Crescentius  had,  in  the  year 
998  A.D.,  conceived  the  idea  of  restoring  Rome  to  its  inde- 
pendence, setting  it  free  from  the  rule  of  strangers  like 
the  emperors,  and  had  died  in  the  cause.  This  story  sug- 
gested to  Sordello  the  answer  to  his  question.  The  true 
way  to  serve  the  people  was  to  restore  Rome  (which  typi- 
fied the  progress  of  mankind,  — the  predominance  of  law 
and  order)  to  her  old  rights. 


i66 


SOKUELLO. 


[pp.  214-219. 


1(, 

■■•■>■ 

«'" 

l9     ' 

1 

H- 

Book  V. 

The  sights  and  reflections  of  one  clay  were  sufficient  to 
dissipate  this  splendid  dream  of  restoring  Rome.  Sor- 
dello  perceives  that  the  masses  are  not  yet  ready  for  such 
a  step ;  that  in  human  progress  there  can  be  no  leaps  and 
bounds ;  short  steps  in  long  intervals  of  time  are  its  nec- 
essary condition.  One  generation  devised,  for  example,  a 
cave  for  shelter ;  it  has  passed  away  before  the  next  step  in 
architecture  can  be  made,  and  a  hut  built.  So  generation 
after  generation  vanishes,  and  at  length  a  city  is  conceived 
and  built.  By  and  by,  comes  sewer  and  forum  ;  at  length, 
in  the  lapse  of  ages,  the  statue.  It  may  be  objected  that 
it  would  be  better  if  some  great  artificer  should  make  all 
these  steps  in  one  lifetime.  But  no,  that  would  be  vain ; 
men  would  not  appreciate  the  advance.  It  is  useless  to 
bestow  benefits  on  mankind  of  which  they  do  not  feel  the 
lack. 

Such  reflections  had  almost  led  Sordello  to  abandon  his 
beautiful  scheme,  when  he  bethinks  him  that  the  true 
object  of  this  vision  of  the  completed  plan,  is  to  inspire 
man  with  hope  and  enthusiasm,  and  that  there  is  another 
vision,  viz.  of  the  first  step  which  must  be  made  towards 
that  ideal.  One  who  realized  the  complete  vision  would 
be  a  god;  it  is  man's  duty  to  make  the  step.  Sordello 
now  attains  the  perception  of  the  truth  — "that  collective 
man  outstrips  the  individual"  —  that  each  man's  work  is 
to  a  large  degree  the  outcome  of  the  work  of  his  prede- 
cessors. This  is  true,  for  example,  in  the  domain  of 
poetry.  Or  again,  consider  the  development  of  society, 
the  advance  of  law  and  order.  Charlemagne"  established 
order  through  mere  force,  —  the  feudal  system.  Unnoted 
almost,  and  confounded  with   this  civil  system,  lay  the 


pp.  319-335.] 


SORDELLO. 


167 


germ  of  the  Church.  By  organizing  the  multitude,  Charle- 
magne had  transformed  an  aggregate  of  individuals  into 
a  unity  —  into  a  body,  as  it  were,  which,  however,  was 
held  together  by  pure  force.  To  this  body  (as  the  next 
stage  in  advancement),  the  Church,  having  attained  con- 
sciousness of  independent  existence,  began  to  lay  claim, 
and  as  the  soul  of  society,  to  assert  its  superiority  to  civil 
power.  Pope  Hildebrand  was  the  man  chiefly  instrumen- 
tal in  making  this  claim  good ;  but  an  innumerable  series 
of  workmen,  each  contributing  his  small  quota,  had  devel- 
oped the  work  represented  by  Charlemagne  and  Hilde- 
brand respectively.  Order,  Which  strength  had  guaranteed, 
begot  knowledge,  or  the  power  of  moral  ideas.  Progress 
did  not  stop  here.  Moral  ideas  began  to  make  use  of 
strength,  as  in  the  crusades ;  while  now,  in  the  institu- 
tion of  the  "Truce  of  God,"  strength  (i.e.  physical  force) 
was  beginning  to  be  dispensed  with  altogether.  Sordello's 
scheme  really  aimed  at  dispensing  with  force  completely, — 
the  production  of  moral  and  intellectual  results,  by  moral 
and  intellectual  forces.  But  this  was  as  yet  premature ; 
the  world  was  not  ready  for  it.  Part  of  the  work  which 
Hildebrand  had  begun  was  not  yet  completed.  Either, 
then,  Sordello  must  be  content  with  the  humbler  task 
of  perfecting  the  work  of  his  great  predecessor,  or  else 
betake  himself  to  his  old  life  of  fancy.  But  having 
discovered  the  closeness  of  the  tie  that  bound  him  to 
the  rest  of  mankind,  and  having  had  his  sympathy  once 
aroused  for  real  men  and  women,  Sordello  could  never 
again  rest  satisfied  with  the  old  inactive  Goito  life.  Per- 
haps, too,  he  thinks,  he  may  be  the  one  man  qualified 
to  bring  about  that  step  in  advance  which  the  age  is  fitted 
to  take.  He  further  plainly  perceives  that  the  one 
practical  contribution  to  human  welfare  which  is,  at  the 


i68 


SORDELLO. 


[pp.  226-232. 


r  Hi 
■»■■  '2.^ 


^  -; 


moment,  in  his  power,  is  ("since  talking  is  his  trade")  to 
persuade  Taurello  to  embrace  the  Guelf  cause,  which  seems 
to  Sordello  to  be  more  closely  akin  with  that  of  Pome,  the 
Church,  and  the  supremacy  of  moral  and  intelleciaai  forces, 
than  is  the  Ghibelline, 

Resolved  not  to  lose  this  opportunity,  as  he  has  lost 
others,  he  immediately  hastens  to  Taurello,  whom  he  finds 
conversing  with  Palma.  With  the  hopefulness  of  the 
novice,  he  expects  to  bring  about  by  a  single  speech  a 
result  which  might  well  be  the  task  of  half  a  lifetime. 
But  Sordello  has  not  yet  got  nd  of  old  defects.  His  self- 
consciousness  and  inability  to  forget  himself  in  his  cause 
deprives  his  words  of  warmth  and  vigor.  Taurello,  in- 
deed, listens  with  politeness,  but  the  remark  he  lets  fall 
at  the  close  of  the  speech  indicates  indifference,  or  even 
contempt  for  the  orator  and  his  ideas.  Thereupon  the 
terrible  feeling  comes  over  Sordello  that,  in  his  past  trifling 
with  life,  he  has  frittered  away  both  his  opportunities  and 
his  capacity  for  earnest  work.  He  fears  that  there  now 
remains  for  him  only  the  work  and  fame  of  a  mere  poet. 
Such  a  fate  seems  terrible,  and  he  makes  one  more  effort 
to  do  his  work  in  behalf  of  his  fellow-men.  But  Taurello, 
still  unmoved,  only  makes  a  sarcastic  reference  to  the 
unfitness  of  poets  for  the  great  sphere  of  politics.  Scorn 
10  a  poet,  as  a  poet,  from  such  a  man  as  Taurello  kindles  all 
Sordello's  indignation.  He  forgets  himself  entirely,  and, 
in  his  earnestness,  is  able  to  do  what  he  could  not  do  at 
Mantua,  —  unfold  his  own  peculiar  ideas.  They  were  not 
like  Naddo's,  thoughts  retailed  exactly  in  the  same  form  in 
which  they  had  been  received  from  others,  but  an  original 
product  concocted  from  all  the  knowledge  Sordello  had  been 
storing.  He  was  kindled,  too,  by  a  sense  of  the  presence 
of  the  unhappy  multitude  in  whose  behalf  he  pleaded. 


pp.  232-236.] 


SORDELLO. 


169 


He  begins  by  acknovvlcd-^nng  his  individi'il  failure,  his 
personal  inferiority  to  Taiirello,  but  proudly  assorts  the 
superiority  of  his  aims  and  ideals,  and  the  priniacy  ^f  the 
poet  as  such.  The  poet,  he  proceed.s,  is  "  earth's  essential 
king."  He  himself,  indc-d,  had  missed  the  truly  royal 
attribute,  through  wasting  his  powers  on  the  preparatory 
stage  of  realizing  the  various  forms  of  life  and  character 
that  have  existed  in  the  world.  The  second  and  distinc- 
tive function  of  the  poet  is  to  proceed  a  step  further, 
and  add  something  novel  to  the  world's  stock  out  of  his 
own  individuality.  Having  attained  this  higher  stage, 
it  is  his  next  business  to  bring  the  rest  of  mankind  to 
his  own  level.  This  reached,  a  new  leader  will  arise  who 
will  repeat  the  process  and  advance  humanity  another 
step. 

Sordello  claims  to  be  one  of  these  leaders,  not  feeling 
himself  thereby  cut  off  from  mankind,  but  finding  therein 
a  tie  which  binds  him  closely  to  his  fellows.     By  this  con- 
ceptioii  he  escapes  his  loneliness  and  egoism ;  the  world 
is  no  longer  a  place  merely  for  working  out  his  own  irdi- 
vtduality.     No,  he  is  the  heir  of  the  labors  of  a  lover  line 
of  workers,  and  must  himself,  in  turn,  contribute  his'share 
to  the  development  cf  mankind.     As  he  looks  back  on  the 
history  of  the  world,  he  traces  through  all  apparent  confu- 
sion this  orderiv  ?dvance,  to  which  it  is  now  his  task  to 
contribute.      He  passes  over  the  earlier  stages  of  social 
growth    through    deeds,   or   physical   force,*   and    begins 
where  song  first  came  into  existence,  —  "the  product  of 
the  finest  minds,"  which  are  "finest"  not  becaus.    they 
diflFer  from  others  in  kind,  but  because  they  surpass  them 
m  degree.      Development   consist,  in  the  gradual  disen- 
gagement of  thought  from  the  physical  or  corporeal.     It 
»  This  has  already  been  given  for  the  reader  in  pp.  219  ff.  of  Book  V. 


I70 


SORDELLO. 


[pp.  93&-939. 


is  an  advance  when,  instead  of  act  producing  act,  mete 
thought  (i.e.  moral  force)  produces  act.  Song,  then,  which 
dispenses  altogether  with  act  or  corporeal  force,  is  already 
an  advanced  stage  of  progress.  The  highest  conceiva- 
ble stage  is  when  thought  itself  is  dispensed  with,  and  we 
come  into  immediate  contact  with  mind ;  i.e.  we  perceive, 
without  intervening  medium,  the  will  of  God.  This  last 
step  is  unattainable ;  the  rest  we  may  hope  for. 

Sordello  proceeds  to  trace  the  development  of  the  work 
of  the  poet.  First,  poetry  unfolded  the  elements  of  life  — 
men  and  women  in  their  simplest  and  most  predominant 
characteristics,  hence  clearly  marked  as  good  or  bad.  The 
poet  accepts  his  characters  from  tradition  or  nistory,  and 
merely  stands  by  and  exhibits  ihem.  Tlas  is  the  epic 
stage,  and  Sordello  here  gives  a  prophetic  description  of 
the  work  of  Dante.  The  next  stage  is  the  dramatic.  The 
poet  stands  above  his  characters,  and  tests  and  exhibits 
them  by  bringing  them  into  collision  with  circumstances. 
He  thus  exhibits  the  shadings  and  minutiae  of  character, 
and  substitutes  a  complete  portrait  for  the  simple  and 
strong  outline's  of  the  epic  period.  Finally,  not  for  the 
world  in  general,  but  for  the  few  who  can  appreciate  it, 
there  is  a  still  more  developed  form  of  poetry,  —  that 
which,  neglecting  external  things,  unveils  man's  inmost 
life.  In  short,  Browning  himself  interpolates  the  kind  of 
poetry  of  which  Sordello  is  an  example. 

Sordello  then  speaks  of  the  pari  passu  advance  of  the 
audience  with  the  poet.  In  the  later  period  they  must 
meet  the  poet  half  way ;  he  is  able  to  assume  the  accu- 
mulated results  of  the  past,  so  that  a  hint,  a  word,  is  suffi- 
cient where  formerly  explicit  details  were  necessary.  And 
yet  expression  will  always  be  found  inadequate  to  thought. 


pp.  339-254.] 


SORDELLO. 


171 


of 


ffht. 


The  latest  poets,  with  all  the  accumulated  spoils  of  the  past, 
will  not  be  able  to  express  a  tithe  of  their  thoughts.^ 

Finally,  Sordello  returns  to  the  immediate  task  before 
him,  and  again  appeals  to  Taurello  to  embrace  the  people's 
cause.  On  a  man  like  Taurello,  such  ideas  and  arguments 
as  these  had,  of  course,  no  effect  whatever.  Not  so,  Bor- 
dello's manner.  Taurello  sees  that  such  enthusiasm,  elo- 
quence, and  energy  would  prove  very  serviceable.  He 
despairs  of  Ecelin ;  Palma,  who  might  have  proved  a 
worthy  head  of  her  family  and  the  Ghibelline  party,  is 
disqualified  by  sex.  She,  however,  loves  Sordello ;  so 
with  a  sudden  impulse,  —  half  jest,  half  earnest,  —  Tau- 
rello throws  the  Emperor's  badge  about  Sordello' s  neck. 
Whereupon  Palma  sees  that  it  is  time  to  reveal  something 
wbkh  Adelaide  had  confessed  on  her  death-bod.  Sordello 
is  the  son  of  Taurello,  who  was  supposed  to  have  perished 
as  an  infant  in  the  flames  of  Vicenza.  Adelaide  alone  had 
been  cognizant  of  this  fact,  and  she,  perceiving  Taurello's 
superiority  over  her  own  husband  EccHn,  and  fearing  that 
he  might  ultimately  seize,  for  the  benefit  of  his  son,  power 
and  honor  which  she  destined  for  her  own,  had  kept  the 
fact  concealed  even  from  Ecelin. 

A  son  restored  to  him,  all  Taurello's  long-vanished  ambi- 
tion returns,  and  he  sets  forth  plans  for  the  aggrandize- 
ment of  his  family.  But  Sordello  remains  silent,  and 
Palma,  perceiving  that  he  needs  to  be  left  to  his  own 
thoughts,  hurries  Taurello  away.  He  continues  to  pour 
forth  his  projects  into  Palme's  ear,  until  a  noise  is  heard 
in  the  chamber  where  they  had  left  Sordello,  and  they 
hasten  thither. 

'  The  passage  on  p.  239  seems  to  give  expression  to  Browning's  own 
method  and  experience. 


172 


SORDELLO. 


[pp,  255-259. 


Book  VI. 


'         Im.'s' 


'•♦-•■ 


Left  alone,  Sordello  had  been  lost  in  anticipations  of 
the  future  which  seemed  open  before  him,  until  the  noise 
of  the  city  recalled  him  to  the  multitude  and  their  claims. 
He  began  an  inward  debate  as  to  his  future  course,  by  a 
review  of  the  past  in  the  light  of  present  knowledge  and 
experience.  The  successive  impulses  to  which  he  had 
yielded  seemed  good  severally,  and  bad  only  in  so  far  as 
each  had  checked  the  development  of  the  others.  His  life 
was  defective,  inasmuch  as  it  lacked  that  unity  which  is 
afforded  by  the  predominance  of  some  one  aim,  sufficient  to 
draw  out  the  whole  force  of  the  individual.  It  was  to  the 
possession  of  such  a  fixed  and  definite  aim  that  others, 
mferior  to  him  in  natural  endowments,  owed  their  success 
in  attaining  some  substantial  fruit  from  life.  In  the  ab- 
sence of  such  an  aim,  the  spirit  remains  inert,  so  that  real 
life  does  not  begin  in  the  present  phase  of  existence  at  all. 

Here  a  difficulty  presents  itself;  the  aim  must  be 
proportioned  to  the  soul.  For  the  limited  spirits  of  ordi- 
nary men,  some  of  the  various  manifestations  of  good 
affoided  a  sufficient  object  to  call  out  every  energy ;  for  a 
universal  spirit  like  Sordello,  there  should  be  a  Best  — 
some  absolute  good — proportioned  to  his  desires.  And 
yet,  he  thinks,  perhaps,  none  such  exists.  In  that  case, 
a  spirit  of  the  Sordello  type  must  find  its  end  in  itself, 
—in  its  own  development.  May  not  this  be  true  also  of 
inferiornatures,  save  that  not  being  fit  for  the  reception 
of  perfect  truth,  they  must  be  enticed  ty  work  out  their 
own  development  by  these  embodied  )ures,  which  serve 
them  for  aims  ? 

Now,  the  multitude  being  inextricably  connected  with 
himself,  in  pursuing  their  advantage,  he  is  merely  devel- 


pp.  260-266] 


SORDELLO. 


^7^3 


oping  a  neglected  part  of  himself;  and  it  might  well  be  a 
question,  whether  he  ought,  in  benefiting  the  multitude, 
(which  was  merely  one  part  of  him)  to  sacrifice  the  rest, 
his  own  personal  future.  But,  again,  the  imagined  entreaty 
of  the  masses  forces  itself  upon  his  mind, —  that  he  should 
first  devote  his  energies  to  the  commonplace  work  which 
would  benefit  them,  and  leave  his  more  splendid  exploits 
until  this  had  been  accomplished. 

And  yet,  supposing  he  did  so  devote  himself,  how  little 
would  he  be  able  to  effect.  Having  attained  one  new 
truth,  he  must  spend  his  remaining  energies  in  enabling 
mankind  to  attain  it  too,  instead  of  following  it  out  through 
higher  and  higher  stages. 

He  had,  for  example,  attained  to  a  spark  of  insight,  viz. 
that  the  Guelfs  should  fitliest  rule.  Must  he,  to  persuade 
men  of  this,  sacrifice  all  the  splendid  prospects  which  the 
Emperor's  badge  and  the  revelation  of  Pal  ma  opened  for 
him }  Was  such  a  sacrifice  warranted,  especially  consider- 
ing that  the  difference  between  Guelfs  and  Guibellines  was 
so  small  .>  And,  then,  at  best,  what  a  hopeless  task  he 
would  undertake;  for  evil  is  not  merely  present  in  one 
spot  whence  it  might  possibly  be  removed,  but  inextricably 
interwoven  with  the  constitution  of  things.  It  is  involved 
i».  good,  and  has  its  outcome  in  good.  Joy  is  but  the  result 
of  evil  overcome ;  evil  affords  the  obstructions  on  which 
man's  spirit  is  developed.  Perfection  would  weary ;  it  is 
because  the  whole  can  be  attained  only  in  parts,  that  it 
is  infinite;  as  a  whole,  we  should  soon  exhaust  it.  We 
are  soon  sated  with  what  we  have  attained  ;  it  is  what  lies 
beyond  that  allures. 

Let  Sordello  then  gratify  the  cravings  of  his  nature  for 
life  in  all  its  fulness ;  while  draining  ignoble  sources,  and 
seemingly  neglecting  higher  attributes,  he  will  really  be 


174 


SORDELLO. 


[pp.  266-273. 


'!«r 


working  out  the  complete  development  of  his  own  nature. 
The  little  which  the  multitude  individually  contribute  to 
his  enjoyment,  can  make  no  perceptible  difference  to  the 
lot  of  each ;  as  on  the  other  hand,  any  sacrifice  which 
Sordello  might  make,  would  be  quite  inadequate  to  better, 
in  any  measurable  degree,  their  condition.  Let  each  soul, 
then,  hasten  on  its  way  towards  the  goal  of  joy :  why 
should  a  precocious  spirit  delay,  that  it  may  not  outstrip 
the  mass } 

Thus,  as  Sordello  reflected,  the  possibilities  of  joy  which 
lay  in  his  own  power  assumed  more  and  more  gigantic 
proportions ;  while  the  world  seemed  to  him  less  and  less 
capable  of  profiting  even  by  the  completest  sacrifice  on  his 
part.  Why  should  he,  before  plunging  himself  into  the 
fulness  of  existence,  wait  for  some  future  life  ?  It  -  is, 
indeed,  probable  that  some  more  splendid  phase  of  exist- 
ence awaits  him  when  this  is  closed.  But  this  world's  joys 
are  for  this  world  ;  for  them  he  thirsts,  and  the  impalpable 
delights  of  a  future  existence  are  scarce  likely  to  console 
him  for  having  missed  those  which  belong  to  the  present. 

Yet  these  joys  have  often  been  abjured  by  sages,  cham- 
pions, and  martyrs,  in  pursuit  of  higher  ones  beyond.  But 
they  felt  truths,  and  cherished  convictions  which  are  not 
Sordello's.  Each  individual  must  act  according  to  his 
own  perceptions.  Objects  appear  differently  when  viewed 
on  different  sides,  and  no  one  has  attained  absolute  truth 
or  absolute  right.  The  right  and  good  which  we  do  attain 
are  dependent  on  the  passing  conditions  of  the  phase  of 
existence  in  which  we  are. 

At  this  point  Sordello  receives  a  marvellous  power  of 
spiritual  vision.  He  was  on  the  point  of  death,  and  the 
dissolving  of  the  bodily  receptacle  seemed  to  allow  the 
soul  to  pierce  through  secondary  veils  into  the  truth  of 


pp.  273-27S.] 


SOKUELl.O, 


171 


thinJ^^s.     He  saw  that   what  is  called  beauty  or  ugliness, 
good  or  evil,  is  so  only  in  relation  to  the  conditions  of  our 
present  life.     In  a  new  sphere,  good  and  ill  will  be  some- 
thing different.     There  will  be  new  joys  and  sorrows  with 
the  same  end,  however,  —  that  of  developing  the  soul.     He 
now  perceived  the  cause  of  the  failure  of  his  life.     The 
soul   is  eternal,  and   is  adapted   for  infinite  development 
through  all  phases  of  existence.     It  is  in  each  sphere  sub- 
mitted to  certain  conditions,  —  in  the  present,  for  example, 
to  what  we  call  bodily  or  material.     The  soul  must,  there- 
fore, not  seek  such  scope  for  itself  as  would  satisfy  its 
infinite  cravings,  but  such  as  are  commensurate  with  the 
body  and  the  material  world.     IJut  Sordello  had  attempted 
to  satisfy  these  infinite  cravings,  and  in  the  vain  attempt, 
had  neglected  the  only  results,  which,  according  to  present 
conditions,  are  attainable.     He  had  thus  attained  nothincr. 
Is  this,  then,  to  be  the  result  in  successive  spheres  of  ex- 
istence.?     Is  Sordello  to  miss  the  satisfaction  which  prop- 
erly belongs  to  each  sphere,  and  only  to  see  his  error  when 
leaving  it  — when  the  soul  is  freer,  having  escaped  one  cycle 
of  conditions,  and  being  not  yet  entered  upon  another .' 
No;  that  cannot  be.    There  must  be  some  way  of  bringing 
the  soul  into  harmony  with  its  conditions.     Ordinary  men 
accomplish  this  by  degrading  the  soul,  and  neglecting  its 
aspirations.     They  blind  the  spirit  to  the  multitudinous 
ends  of  existence,  and,  fastening  on  some  aim  as  the  sole 
one,  pursue  it  with  all  their  energy.     But  is  it  not  possible, 
while  preserving  the  many-sidedness  of  the  soul,  to  find 
some  motive,  some  love,  powerful  enough  to  make  the  soul 
submit  to  material  conditions,  and  be  content  to  follow  out 
some  course  of  activity  such  as  the  present  life  affords  ? 
Here  in  Bordello's  own  case.  Nature,  in  order  to  afford  a 
motive  sufficient,  has  employed  all  her  allurements  from 


176 


SORDELLO. 


[pp.  278-270. 


ill 
X  ■ 


*«•««> 


the  trees  and  flowers  of  his  childhood,  to  the  multitude, 
with  regard  to  whom  this  internal  debate  began.  Whether 
shall  he  sacrifice  himself  or  the  multitude  ? 

Of  Sordeljo's  thoughts  we  learn  nothing  more  .  he  dies 
at  this  point ;  but  the  fact,  told  on  the  nt.xt  page,  that  the 
badge  was  found  trodden  beneath  his  feet,  indicates  that 
he  chose  what  we  feel  to  be  the  better  part,  —  that  he 
resolved  to  sacrifice  his  own  ambition  to  the  well-being  of 
mankind. 

The  difficulties  raised  in  the  final  debate  have  not,  how- 
ever, been  answered ;  accordingly  Browning,  in  person, 
steps  in  to  give  his  solution.  There  is  need,  we  have  seen, 
of  a  Love  powerful  enough  to  bind  down  the  soul  to  a  course 
of  action  commensurate  with  the  conditions  of  the  present 
universe.  This  love  must  be  for  an  object  completely 
external  to,  and  beyond,  ourselves  ;  otherwise,  we  fall  into 
the  dilemma,  which  confronted  Sordello,  of  sacrificing  a  part 
to  a  part.  This  object  must,  further,  be  capable  of  draw- 
ing out  the  soul  completely  and  infinitely  ;  that  is,  —  must 
be  beyond  and  above  us,  never  to  be  attained  or  under- 
stood ;  must,  in  short,  be  absolute  and  infinite,  in  other 
words  —  God.  But  the  mere  conception  of  God  is  too 
remote  and  incomprehensible  ;  there  must  be  some  means 
of  communication  between  the  Absolute  and  man,  equal 
in  authority  with  the  Absolute,  yet  capable  of  being 
brought  into  relation  with  man.  There  is  need,  then,  of 
God  revealed  to  man,  i.e.  Christ. 

■  Salinguerra  and  Palma  found  Sordello  dead,  with  the 
badge  beneath  his  feet.  He  has  passed  through  the 
various  stages  of  development ;  and  has  learned  at  last 
that  Love  is  necessary  :  —  this  is  a  central  truth  at  which 
spirits  as  different  as  Eglamour  and  Sordello  meet. 

The  interest  of  the  story  has  gone  with  Sordello,  but  the 


pp.  280-289.] 


SORDF.LLO. 


m 


1  the 
L  the 
:  last 
vhich 


poet  hastily  winds  up  its  remaining  threads.  Taurello 
abandons  the  projects  for  the  a-<;randizement  of  himself 
and  his  family,  which  the  events  of  that  evening  had  be- 
gotten,  and  identifies  himself  again  with  the  house  of 
Romano.  The  two  sons  of  Ecelin  came  forward  as  leaders 
of  their  party,  and  prove  scourges  of  humanity,  while  Tau- 
rello sinks  into  insignificance,  and  spends  his  last  days,  an 
octogenarian,  in  nominal  imprisonment  in  Venice. 

The   poet   then   takes  leave  of  the    other  characters. 
Eglamour's  spirit  rises  higher  and  higher  through  succes- 
sive phases  of  existence,  but  always  among  the  lowest  who 
rise.   There  ever  clings  to  him  something  of  incompleteness 
and  imperfection.    As  for  Sordello,  the  chroniclers  celebrate 
him  as  knight,  bard,  and  gallant.     Just  what  he  desired  to 
become,  yet  could  not  be,  they  make  him.     About  these 
matters,  then,  he  need  not  have  troubled  himself ;  mankind 
gave  him  the  attestation  which  he  so  much  desired  (vit/g 
Bk.  II.).     The  incompleteness  in  his  life  lies  on  that  side 
where  completeness  was  in  his  power;  viz.  in  active  life 
for  the  service  of  mankind.     He  suffered  an  opportunity 
to  slip  which  has  never  presented  itself  to  any  individual 
since.     The  chance  had  vanished  before  Dante  came.     So 
the  world  has  suffered  and  continues  to  suffer  from  Sor- 
dello's  remissness.     The  best  we  can  say  for  him  is,  that  he 
was  a  poet  who  struggled  upward  towards  God,  singing  as 
he  went,  though  his  song  has  not  availed  to  his  fellow-men. 
Browning  closes  with  a  word  to  his  readers.     His  poem 
doubtless  lacks  the  sweetness  which  pleases  the  public. 
But  the  harshness   of  its  perfume,  to  which   the  critics 
object,  is  a  mark  of  the  power  and  permanence  of  the 
work.^ 

»  Cf.  Epilogue  to  Pacchiarotto,  and  Other  Poems. 


178 


development:    second    rERIOD. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


DEVELOPMENT:    SECOND   PERIOD. 


W 

t 

M 
i 


Already  before  the  publication  of  Sordello,  Browning 
had  turned  to  work  of  a  new  kind.  In  1835  he  had  met 
the  famous  actor  Macready,  and  at  his  suggestion  wrote  a 
regular  drama  for  the  stage,  the  historical  play  entitled 
Strafford.  It  was  produced  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre  in 
1837,  and  was  the  first  of  a  series  of  dramatic  works  which 
ended  in  1846  with  Luria  and  A  Soul's  Tragedy.  In  the 
opening  chapter  of  this  volume,  we  have  discussed  at  length 
Browning's  excellences  and  limitations  as  a  dramatic  writer, 
and  this  series  of  works  simply  gives  occasion  for  illustrat- 
ing and  reiterating  what  was  there  said.  They  may,  there- 
fore, be  dismissed  with  a  brief  review. 

In  Paracelsus,  Browning  had  employed  a  form  which  is 
dramatic  in  so  far  as  description  in  the  third  person  is  es- 
chewed, and  the  poem  unfolded  in  a  series  of  dialogues,  — 
or  rather  monologues ;  for,  though  there  is  more  than  one 
speaker,  there  is  no  real  conversation,  but  a  succession  of 
speeches,  as  truly  monologues  as  Andrea  del  Sarto  or 
Bishop  Blougram.  The  poet,  aware  of  this,  —  aware  that 
notwithstanding  its  form,  the  poem  is  not  dramatic  in 
the  ordinary  sense,  —  attempts  to  preclude  misconception 
by  prefixing  the  following  remarks  :  — 


"  I  am  anxious  that  the  reader  should  not,  at  the  vety  outset,  — 
mistaking  my  performance  for  one  of  a  class  with  which  it  has 
nothing  in  common, — judge  it  by  principles  on  which  it  has  never 


DEVELOI'MEXT  :    SECOND    I'ERIOD. 


'79 


been  moulded,  and  subject  it  to  a  standard  to  which  it  was  never 
meant  to  conform.     I  therefore  anticipate  his  discovery,  that  it  is 
an  attempt,  probably  more  novel  than  happy,  to  reverse  the  method 
Uiua/iy  adopted  hy  writers  whose  aim  is  to  set  forth  any  phenom- 
enon of  the  mind  or  the  passions,  by  the  operation  of  persons  and 
events  :  and  that,  instead  of  having  recourse  to  an  external  machin- 
ery of  incidents  to  create  and  evolve  the  crisis  I  desire  to  produce,  1 
have  ventured  to  display  somewhat  minutely  the  mood  itself  in  \ts 
rise  and  progress,  and  have  suffered  the  agency  by  ivhich  it  is  influ- 
enced and  determined,  to  be  generally  discernible  in  its  effects  alone, 
and  subordinate  throughout,  if  not  altogether  excluded:   and   this 
for  a  reason.     I  have  endeavored  to  write  a  poem,  not  a  drama : 
the  canons  of  the  drama  are  well  known,  and  I  cannot  but  think 
that,  inasmuch  as  they  have  immediate  regard  to  stage  representa- 
tion, the  peculiar  advantages  they  hold  out  are  really  such  only  so 
long  as  the  purpose  for  which  they  were  at  first  instituted  is  kept 
m  view.     I  do  not  very  well  understand  what  is*  called  a  Dramatic 
Poem,  wherein  all  those  restrictions  only  submitted  to  on  account 
of  compensating  good  in  the  original  scheme  are  scrupulously 
retamed,  as  though  for  some  special  fitness  in  themselves,  —  and 
all  new  facilities  placed  at  an  author's  disposal  by  the  vehicle  he 
selects,  as  pertinaciously  rejected." 

The  passage  italicized  in  the  above  (the  italics  are  not 

m  the  original)  exactly  describes  Browning's  own  special 

sphere ;  whereas  in  submitting  himself  to  the  restrictions 

of  the  true  drama,  he  lost  the  advantages  of  his  own  method, 

withorut  bemg  able,  for  reasons  explained  in  Chapter  I    to 

avail  himself  of  the  advantages  of  the  regular  dramltic 

form.      His  dramas,   accordingly,   are  neither    great    as 

dramas,  nor  do  they  rank  high  among  Browning's  own 

works ;  for  in  them  he  was  hampered  by  uncongenial  aims 

and  methods.      He  himself  virtually  condemns  Strafford 

as   a  play,,  when  he  says,  in  the  preface,  that   this  play 

IS  one  of  Action  in  Character,  rather  than  Character  in 


^P 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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I.I 


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150 


13.2 

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2.2 
M 

1.8 


U    i  1.6 


a 


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Hiotographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WfST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


5'*  I 


1 80 


DEVELOPMEKT  :    SECOND   PERIOD. 


Pi  W[ 


PH. 


1  1 


Action,"  a  peculiarity  which,  according  to  his  preface  to 
Paracelsus,  belongs  rather  to  a  dramatic  poem  than  a  reg- 
ular drama.  "  On  the  stage,"  says  M.  Louis  Etienne,  in 
an  article  on  Browning,*  "we  require  action  and  not 
psychological  analysis ;  movement  is  necessary,  whereas 
psychology  can  only  be  unfolded  by  means  of  long  speeches." 
The  same  critic  recognizes  Browning's  power  of  creating 
characters,  and  his  inability  to  use  them  in  a  drama. 
"Browning,"  he  says,  "can  create  persons  who  live  and 
speak ;  but  these  confine  themselves  to  feeling  and  think- 
ing ;  they  do  not  act."  Both  of  these  central  defects  in 
Browning  as  a  writer  for  the  stage,  arise  from  his  pre- 
occupation with  the  inner  life.  The  struggle  of  the  mind 
for  inner  unity,  as  in  Sordello,  is  the  theme  that  suits 
him  best  Whereas  in  Shakespeare,  while  inner  unity 
may  be  involved^  it  is  always  bound  up  with  the  overcom- 
ing of  some  exterior  obstacle,  as  in  the  case  of  Hamlet, 
Brutus,  Othello ;  and  this  external  action  is  kept  in  the 
foreground.  When  Browning  combines  an  external  with 
an  internal  crisis,  the  combination  is  often  forced  and 
awkward,  as  in  the  death  of  Sordello,  of  Luria,  etc.  In 
external  matters  he  falls  easily  into  the  fault  of  the  artist 
who  has  not  complete  command  over  his  material,  —  into 
exaggeration,  and  the  action  becomes  melodramatic.  Wit- 
ness the  unnatural  and  repugnant  play  of  The  Blot  in  the 
^Scutcheon,  characteristically  admired  by  Dickens,  whose 
own  works  are  marred  by  the  same  defect  of  overdrawn 
and  unnatural  pathos.  The  more  common  defect  is,  as 
already  indicated,  absence  of  action  and  movement.  In 
Luria,  where  the  situation  is  really  dramatic, — a  Moorish 
mercenary  leading  the  armies  of  Florence  to  victory,  while 
the  Florentines  themselves  are  plotting  his  destruction,  — 


'  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  Sec.  Pcriode,  tome  85. 


DEVELOPMENT  :    SECOND    PERIOD. 


iSl 


"there  is,"  as  Mr.  W.  L.  Courtenay  says,  "no  movement, 
no  scenic  interest,  no  picture  for  the  eye."  *  The  in- 
terest has  been  transferred  from  the  outer  drama  to  the 
drama  that  is  being  enacted  in  Luria's  own  soul.  In  most 
of  the  plays  the  motives  and  characterization  are  too 
subtle  for  the  form ;  Strafford  or  King  Victor  and  King 
Charles  may  be  read  more  than  once  with  very  dim  im- 
pressions of  the  persons  and  their  relations  to  one 
another.  Colombes  Birthday  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the 
most  attractive  of  these  plays,  but  the  external  action 
lacks  all  seriousness  and  interest,  — a  Duchess,  with  one 
follower,  debating  whether  she  will  maintain  herself  in  her 
capital  against  an  invading  Prince,  attended  by  an  aged 
philosopher. 

The  defects  of  Browning's  work  in  this  province  are 
manifest  not  merely  in  general  structure,  but  in  detail. 
Browning's  special  power  and  excellence  are  best  revealed 
in  long  monologues,  but  these  are  dead-weights  on  a  drama. 
The  length  and  number  of  monologues  in  the  most  psycho- 
logical of  Shakespeare's  plays  sink  into  insignificance  when 
compared  with  those  of  the  plays  under  consideration.  The 
following  illustrative  statistics  are  drawn  from  the  article 
quoted  above.  Luria  reveals  himself  in  a  speech  of  80 
lines  (Act  IV.)  before  drinking  poison  ;  King  Victor,  when 
he  returns  to  the  palace,  explains  himself  in  a  speech  of 
82  lines ;  Constance  expounds  to  Norbert  (/«  a  Balcony), 
the  mental  condition  of  the  Queen  in  an  analysis  contained 
in  one  speech  of  53,  and  another  of  61  lines;  Djabal, 
in  one  of  his  most  critical  meetings  with  Anael  {Retimi 
of  the  Druses),  furnishes  a  commentary  of  54  lines  on 
his  own  motives,  conveyed  in  two  asides  to  the  audience. 
On  the  other  hand,  where  can  we  find  a  real  and  living 

*  Fortnightly  Review,  June,  i88j. 


1 82 


development:  second  period. 


I'M. 


:^ 


dialogue  in  which  there  is  interaction  and  movement, 
such  as  the  quarrel  scene  between  Brutus  and  Cassius 
in  Julius  Casar,  — a  perfect  drama  in  itself,  with  its  expo- 
sition of  the  facts,  their  development,  the  crisis,  and  the 
denouement.  Compare  with  such  a  scene  the  awkward- 
ness and  unnaturalncss  of  the  interview  between  Jules  and 
Phene  in  Pippa  Passes.  This  interview  also  gives  an  exam- 
ple of  the  next  defect  in  these  dramas,  —  Browning's  in- 
ability to  make  his  characters  talk  naturally, — a  defect 
examined  in  Chapter  I.  How  out  of  keeping  with  her 
position  and  character  is  it  that  Phene  should  talk  and 
behave  as  she  does  in  this  scene !  And,  in  the  same  work, 
Pippa's  soliloquy  and  many  of  her  songs  are  equally  un- 
suited  to  her  age  and  condition. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  dwell  further  on  the  defects  of  this 
series  of  works.  That  Browning's  power  is  often  manifest 
in  them,  need  not  be  said,  but  we  shall  not  delay  to  note 
these  cases  ;  better  examples  are  afforded  elsewhere.  One 
remark,  however,  is  to  be  added.  These  works  fall  into 
two  classes,  —  those  which  were  written  to  be  acted,  and 
are  in  form  regular  dramas  ;  and  those  which  only  partially 
follow  this  form,  and  were  evidently  not  intended  for  the 
stage.  In  the  latter.  Browning  has  freer  play  for  his  own 
special  aptitudes,  and  is,  consequently,  more  successful. 
Pippa  Passes,  in  parts,  and  A  Soul's  Tragedy  afford  fine 
examples  of  his  power.  To  the  latter,  the  characterization 
of  Chiappino  and  Ogniben,  as  well  as  the  humor  and  irony, 
gives  a  high  rank  among  Browning's  works. 

Meanwhile,  side  by  side  with  these  works,  there  had 
been  coming  from  the  press  a  series  of  short  poems  in 
which  Browning  was  working  out  the  vein  in  which  he  has 
gained  his  greatest  results.  These  poems  were  subse- 
quently gathered  together  under  the  title  of  Dramatic 


DEVELOPMENT  :    SIXOND    PERIOD. 


183 


Komauics  and  Lyrics.  My  Last  Dnchcss  is  an  example 
of  the  former ;  the  Cavalier  Song  quoted  in  Chapter  L,  of 
the  latter.  Among  the  happiest  in  conception  and  exe- 
cution may  be  mentioned  Saul  {Part  /.),  T/ie  Lost  Leader, 
The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,  The  Boy  and  the  Angel, 
and  The  Bishop  orders  his  Tomb  in  St.  Praxcds  Church. 
The  latter  may  take  its  place  beside  Andrea  del  Sarto  as 
one  of  the  most  perfect  of  Browning's  productions,  and 
it  is  accordingly  quoted  here. 

The  Bishop  is  dying,  and  has  summoned  his  sons  (for  his 
life  has  been  an  immoral  one)  to  his  bedside,  to  give  orders 
for  the  construction  of  his  tomb.  He  typifies  the  merely 
sensuous  love  of  the  beautiful,  —  a  sort  of  animal  delight 
in  it,  —  which,  unlike  the  true  love  of  beauty,  described 
in  Chapter  IV.,  does  not  develop  the  spirit,  nor  raise  it 
towards  the  infinite.  The  Bishop  is  of  the  earth,  earthy. 
He  embodies,  too,  certain  tendencies  of  the  Renaissance. 
No  one  who  studied  that  marvellous  period,  whether  in  its 
history,  its  literature,  or  its  plastic  art,  can  fail  to  be  pro- 
foundly struck  by  the  way  in  which  Paganism  and  Chris- 
tianity, philosophic  scepticism  and  gross  superstition,  the 
antique  and  the  modern,  enthusiastic  love  of  the  beauti- 
ful and  vile  immorality,  were  all  mingled  together  without 
much,  if  any,  consciousness  of  incompatibility  or  inconsis- 
tency. All  this  is  made  vivid  in  the  poem  before  us.  "  I 
know  no  other  piece  of  modem  English  prose  or  poetry," 
says  Ruskin,  speaking  of  this  poem,  "in  which  there  is, so 
much  told  as  in  these  lines,  of  the  Renaissance  spirit,  —  its 
worldliness,  inconsistency,  pride,  hypocrisy,  ignorance  of 
itself,  love  of  art,  of  luxury,  and  of  good  Latin.  It  is 
nearly  all  I  have  said  of  the  central  Renaissance  in  thirty 
pages  of  the  •  Stones  of  Venice '  put  into  as  many  lines. 
Browning's  also  being  the  antecedent  work." 


I 


184 


DEVELOPMENT  :    SECOND   PERIOD. 


'1 


„) 


THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  HIS  TOMB  AT  SAINT  PRAXED'S 

CHURCH. 

ROME,  15 — . 

Vanity,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity ! 

Draw  round  my  bed :  is  Anselm  keeping  back? 

Nephews  —  sons  mine  ...  ah  God,  I  know  not !    Well  — 

She,  men  would  have  to  be  your  mother  once, 

Old  Gandolf  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was  !  5 

What's  done  is  done,  and  she  is  dead  beside, 

Dead  long  ago,  and  I  am  Bishop  since. 

And  as  she  died  so  must  we  die  ourselves. 

And  thence  ye  may  perceive  the  world's  a  dream. 

Life,  how  and  what  is  it?    As  here  I  lie  10 

In  this  state-chamber,  dying  by  degrees. 

Hours  and  long  hours  in  the  dead  night,  I  ask 

"  Do  I  live,  am  I  dead  ! "    Peace,  peace  seems  all. 

Saint  Praxed's  ever  was  the  church  for  peace ; 

And  so,  about  this  tomb  of  mine.    I  fought  15 

With  tooth  and  nail  to  save  my  niche,  ye  know : 

—  Old  Gandolf  cozened  me,  despite  my  care ; 

Shrewd  was  that  snatch  from  out  the  comer  South 

He  graced  his  carrion  with,  God  curse  the  same  ! 

Yet  still  my  niche  is  not  so  cramped  but  thence  30 

One  sees  the  pulpit  o'  the  epistle-side, 

And  somewhat  of  the  choir,  those  silent  seats, 

And  up  into  the  aery  dome  where  live 

The  angels,  and  a  sunbeam's  sure  to  lurk : 

And  I  shall  fill  my  slab  of  basalt  there,  35 

And  'neath  my  tabernacle  take  my  rest, 

With  those  nine  columns  round  me,  two  and  two, 

31.  "Epistle-side";  the  right-hand  side  u  one  facet  the  altar  (Rotfe't 
Selections  from  Browning). 


development:  second  period. 


185 


10 


»5 


20 


The  odd  one  at  my  feet  where  Anselm  stands : 
Peach-blossom  marble  all,  the  rare,  the  ripe 
As  fresh-poured  red  wine  of  a  mighty  pulse. 

—  Old  Gandolf  with  his  paltry  onion-stone, 
Put  me  where  I  may  look  at  him  !    True  peach, 
Rosy  and  flawless :  how  I  earned  the  prize  ! 
Draw  close :  that  conflagration  of  my  church 

—  What  then?    So  much  was  saved  if  aught  were  missed  ! 
My  sons,  ye  would  not  be  my  death  ?    Go  dig 

The  white-grape  vineyard  where  the  oil-press  stood, 

Drop  water  gently  till  the  surface  sink, 

And  if  ye  find  .  .  .  ah  God,  I  know  not,  I !  .  .  . 

Bedded  in  store  of  rotten  figleaves  soft, 

And  corded  up  in  a  tight  olive-frail, 

Some  lump,  ah  God,  of  lapis  lazuli. 

Big  as  a  Jew's  head  cut  off  at  the  nape. 

Blue  as  a  vein  o'er  the  Madonna's  breast  .  .  . 

Sons,  all  have  I  bequeathed  you,  villas,  all. 

That  brave  Frascati  villa  with  its  bath, 

So,  let  the  blue  lump  poise  between  my  knees, 

Like  God  the  Father's  globe  on  both  his  hands 

Ye  worship  in  the  Jesu  Church  so  gay. 

For  Gandolf  shall  not  choose  but  see  and  bu.st ! 

Swift  as  a  weaver's  shuttle  fleet  our  years ; 

Man  goeth  to  the  grave,  and  where  is  he? 

Did  I  say  basalt  for  my  slab,  sons  ?    Black  — 

'Twas  ever  antique-black  I  meant !     How  else 

Shall  ye  contrast  my  frieze  to  come  beneath? 

The  bas-relief  in  bronze  ye  promised  me. 


30 


.)3 


40 


45 


S« 


55 


l.lnl«f  °"'Kr*T*u'  Browning's  translation  of  Italian  cipomno,  name  of  a 
kind  of  marble  which  splits  into  layers  like  an  onion  (Rolfe's  Selections). 
42-     Lapis  lazuli  ":  a  beautiful  blue  stone. 
46.  "  Frascati  ":  a  resort  in  the  neighborhood  of  Rome 
48-49.  Still  to  be  seen  in  the  "Jesu  Church  "  (//  G»u)  at  Rome 
54.     Antique-black  " :  translation  of  Italian  AWo-antico  (  Rolfe's  Selections;. 


1 86 


DEVELOPMENT  :    SECOND    PERIOD. 


r"> 


I 


)■» 


1 


Those  Pans  and  Nymphs  ye  wot  of,  and  perchance 
Some  tripod,  thyrsus,  with  a  vase  or  so. 
The  Saviour  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount. 
Saint  Praxed  in  a  glory,  and  one  Pan 
Ready  to  twitch  the  Nymph's  last  garment  off. 
And  Moses  with  the  tables  ...  but  I  know 
Ye  mark  me  not  I    What  do  they  whisper  thee. 
Child  of  my  bowels,  Anselm  ?    Ah,  ye  hope 
To  revel  down  my  villas  while  I  gasp 
Bricked  o'er  with  beggar's  mouldy  travertine 
Which  Gandolf  from  his  tomb-top  chuckles  at  1 
Nay,  boys,  ye  love  me  —  all  of  jasper,  then  ! 
Tis  jasper  ye  stand  pledged  t6,  lest  I  grieve 
My  bath  must  needs  be  left  behind,  alas  ! 
One  block,  pure  green  as  a  pistachio-nut. 
There's  plenty  jasper  somewhere  in  the  world  — 
And  have  I  not  Saint  Praxed's  ear  to  pray 
Horses  for  ye,  and  brown  Greek  manuscripts, 
And  mistresses  with  great  smooth  marbly  limbs? 
— That's  if  ye  carve  my  epitaph  aright, 
Choice  Latin,  picked  phrase,  TuUy's  every  word, 
No  gaudy  ware  like  Gandolfs  second  line  — 
Tully,  my  masters?    Ulpian  serves  his  need  ! 
And  then  how  I  shall  lie  through  centuries. 
And  hear  the  blessed  mutter  of  the  mass. 
And  see  God  made  and  eaten  all  day  long, 


6o 


65 


70 


75 


80 


57-58.  Such  ornaments  are  common  on  ancient  sarcophagi. 

60-62.  Note  the  significant  mingling  of  incongmous  subjects. 

66.  "Travertine  " :  a  species  of  limestone,  much  used  for  common  purposes 
in  Rome. 

74.  The  collection  of  Greek  Ms|.  was  a  favorite  pursuit  of  the  virtuosi 
of  those  da3rs. 

79.  "  Ulpian  " :  a  later  writer  on  law,  died  228  A.D.,  whose  Latin  was  there- 
fore not  the  choicest. 

82-84.  Note  the  gross,  sensuous  nutterialism  condensed  into  these  powerful 
lines. 


1 87 


85 


90 


95 


nnvF.Lcji'.Mi'.NT:  sixond  I'Kkiou. 

And  feel  the  steady  candlc-tlaine,  .iiul  taste 

(lood  strong  thick  stiiijefying  incense-siuoke  ! 

Tor  as  I  he  here,  hours  of  the  dead  night, 

Dying  in  state  and  by  such  slow  degrees, 

I  fold  my  arms  as  if  they  clasped  a  crook, 

And  stretch  my  feet  forth  straight  as  stone  can  point, 

An<l  let  the  bedclothes,  for  a  morttloth,  tlrop 

Into  great  laps  and  folds  of  sculptor's  work : 

And  as  yon  tapers  dwindle,  and  strange  thoughts 

(Jrow,  with  a  certain  humming  in  my  ears, 

About  the  life  before  I  hved  this  life, 

And  this  life  too,  popes,  cardinals  and  priests, 

Saint  I'raxed  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 

Your  tall  pale  mother  with  her  talking  eyes. 

And  new-found  agate  urns  as  fresh  as  day. 

And  marble's  language,  Latin  pure,  discreet, 

— Aha,  ELUCESCEBAT,  quoth  our  friend? 

No  Tully,  said  I,  Ulpian  at  the  best ! 

Evil  and  brief  hath  been  my  pilgrimage. 

All  lapis,  all,  sons  !     Else  I  give  the  Pope 

My  villas  !     Will  ye  ever  eat  my  heart  ? 

Ever  your  eyes  were  as  a  lizard's  quick, 

They  glitter  like  your  mother's  for  my  soul. 

Or  ye  would  heighten  my  impoverished  frieze, 

Piece  out  its  starved  design,  and  fill  my  vase 

With  grapes,  and  add  a  vizor  and  a  Term, 

95-  Cf.  11.  59,  60.  Browning  himself  explains :  "  In  St.  PrnrcJ,  the  blunder 
as  to 'the  sermon'  is  the  result  of  the  dying  man's  haziness;   he  would  not 
reveal  himself  as  he  does  but  for  that  -  {vide  Rolfe's  Selections,  p.  195).     st 
Fraxed  was  a  woman. 

98.  "Marble's  language":  the  language  best  suited  for  inscriptions  -  as 
Latm  certamly  is. 

99-  "  Elucescebat":  a  form  not  found  in  I.atin  of  the  best  age. 

108.  "  Vizor  " :  a  masque  such  as  was  worn  by  ancient  actors.  "  Term  » •  a 
bust  sprmgmg  from  a  square  pillar.  Both  these  objects  are  commonly  found 
represented  on  ancient  sarcophagi. 


100 


»o5 


i88 


DEVIXOI'MKNT  :    SIXONI)    I'EKIOD. 


IK     "JW 


And  to  the  tripod  yc  would  tic  a  lynx 

That  in  his  struggle  throws  the  thyrsus  down, 

To  comfort  me  on  my  entablature 

Whereon  I  am  to  lie  till  I  must  ask 

"  Do  I  live,  am  I  dead? "    There,  leave  me,  there  I 

For  ye  have  stabbed  me  with  ingratitude 

To  death  —  ye  wish  it  —  God,  ye  wish  it !     Stone  — 

Gritstone,  a-crumble  !     Clammy  scjuares  which  sweat 

As  if  the  corpse  they  keep  were  oozing  through  — 

And  no  more  /a/is  to  delight  the  world  ! 

Well  go  !     I  bless  ye.     Fewer  tapers  there. 

But  in  a  row :  and,  going,  turn  your  backs 

— Ay,  like  departing  altar-ministrants, 

And  leave  me  in  my  church,  the  church  for  peace, 

That  I  may  watch  at  leisure  if  he  leers  — 

Old  Gandolf,  at  me,  from  his  onion-stone, 

As  still  he  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was  1 


IIO 


»*5 


1 20 


«25 


■  ■■a 
.It 

J 


^^^ 


To  work  of  this  form,  Browning  seems  wholly  to  have 
devoted  himself  after  the  publication  of  the  last  of  his 
dramas  in  1846.  The  result  was  given  to  the  world  in  two 
volumes,  — Men  and  Women  (1855)  and  Dramatis  Persona 
(1864).  The  other  poems  published  during  this  period, 
vir.  Christmas  Eve  and  Easter  Day,  are  longer,  duller, 
more  argumentative,  less  picturesque,  than  most  of  those 
included  in  the  two  collections  mentioned,  but  do  not 
essentially  differ  from  them.  Men  and  Women  and  Dra- 
9taiis  Ptn&mm  are  the  two  volumes  which  contain  the  hap- 
piest aiii  dwst  varied  exhibition  of  Browning's  power,  and 
«•  the  Cttlnination  of  his  genius.  It  is  to  be  noted  that 
flwy  cover  almost  two  decades  of  the  poet's  life,  —  from 
hb  thirty-fourth  to  his  fifty-second  year,  a  period  during 
tAich  sen's  powers  generally  unite  the  maximum  of  vigor 
tnd  maturity.     In  them  Browning  was  working  on  the 


DEVELOPMENT  :    SECOND    PERIOD. 


189 


IIO 


'»5 


lao 


"5 


material,  and  in  the  ways  which  suit  him  best  and  are  most 
characteristic  of  him.  The  form  of  these  pieces  varies 
somewhat ;  but,  as  the  names  given  to  these  two  volumes 
(as  well  as  to  the  previous  collection  of  the  samd  charac- 
ter) indicate,  there  is  a  dramatic  element  present  in  nearly 
all ;  while  at  the  same  time  they  are  not  dramas.  M. 
Milsand  describes  the  type  when  he  says,  "  to  unfold  a 
thought,  and  by  this  very  thought  to  reveal  a  character 
who  colors  the  thought,  is  a  favorite  method  with  Brown- 
ing." The  description  will  be  more  complete  if  we  add 
the  converse,  —  that  to  reveal  a  character  or  situation, 
and  thereby  unfold  a  thought,  is  a  frequent  and  favorite 
method  with  him.  In  some  cases,  as  in  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra, 
the  thought  is  the  prime  matter,  and  the  character  is 
no  more  than  hinted  at.  In  others,  as  in  The  Bishop 
Orders  his  Tomb,  the  character  predominates,  and  the 
thought  is  in  the  background.  In  still  others,  as  Andrea 
del  Sarto,  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  there  is  a  balance  between  the 
two  sides. 

In  1868  Browning  published  his  longest  and,  in  some 
respects,  his  greatest  work.  The  Ring  and  the  Book.  It 
marks  a  turning-point  in  the  poet's  career.  Tendencies 
which  had  hitherto  been  subordinate,  become  after  this 
date  dominant ;  and  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  while  in  some 
respects  the  culmination  of  his  earlier  work,  contains  the 
indications  of  the  change.  It  is  in  every  way  a  most 
remarkable  and  characteristic  production.  The  first  point 
that  strikes  one  is  the  length  of  the  poem.  It  contains 
almost  22,000  lines.  Paradise  Lost  has  not  half  that  num- 
ber (10,565) ;  the  Iliad\^z&  less  than  16,000.  Yet,  instead 
of  containing  an  account  of  the  whole  universe,  like  the 
first-mentioned,  or  involving  a  large  number  of  persons 
and  incidents  like  the  second,  it  relates  only  an  incident  of 


190 


HEVKLOI'MKNT  :    SIXONI)    I'KRIOD. 


1  r 
urn 


private  life, — a  murder  which  took  place  in  Rome  towards 
the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century.  The  poem  is  di- 
vided into  twelve  books.  In  the  first  and  last  the  poet 
speaks  in  person.  The  intervening  ten  are  dramatic,  each 
containing,  in  an  unbroken  monologue,  an  account  of  the 
case  by  some  person  interested. 

In  the  introductory  book  the  poet  gives  the  genesis  of 
the  poem,  —  tells  how  he  found  in  a  Fiorence  bookstall 
an  old  volume  giving  an  account  of  the  trial  in  a  case 
of  murder ;  he  closes  with  an  outline  of  the  facts  of  the 
story,  showing  thus  early  that  the  interest  of  the  poem  is 
not  to  be  a  plot  interest.  The  story  is  briefly  this.  Guido 
Franceschini,  a  nobleman  of  Arczzo,  poor  but  of  ancient 
family,  has  spent  the  best  years  of  his  life  in  vainly  seek- 
ing advancement  and  wealth  at  the  Papal  Court.  Embit- 
tered by  long  years  of  hope  deferred,  already  on  the  verge 
of  old  age,  he  resolves  to  establish  himself  in  another 
way,  —  by  marriage  with  an  heiress,  —  and  to  retire  to 
the  ancestral  home  at  Arezzo.  Under  the  guidance  of  a 
younger  and  more  politic  brother,  who  is  a  priest,  he  pro- 
poses to  marry  Pompilia,  a  young  and  innocent  girl  of  six- 
teen, beneath  him  in  rank,  but  the  only  child  of  parents 
reputed  wealthy.  The  father,  Pietro,  refuses  the  offer; 
the  mother,  however,  comes  to  a  secret  understanding  with 
Guido ;  and,  the  girl  being  an  ignorant  and  submissive  tool 
in  her  hands,  the  marriage  takes  place.  The  father,  after 
some  resistance,  accepts  the  irretrievable ;  the  old  couple 
foolishly  put  all  their  property  in  the  hands  of  their  new 
son-in-law,  and  accompany  him  to  Arezzo,  to  form  hence- 
forth a  part  of  his  household.  The  marriage  proves  to  be 
an  altogether  unsuitable  and  unhappy  one.  Guido,  wish- 
ing to  be  rid  of  the  old  couple,  makes  life  unendurable  to 
them  by  his  brutalities,  and  they  return  to  Rome,  leaving 


DEVF.I.OPMF.NT  :    SIXOND    PKRIOP. 


191 


their  means  of  subsistence  in  his  hands.  The  mother  now 
makes  an  unexpected  revelation.  She  confesses  that 
Pompilia  is  no  child  of  hers  ;  that  she  had  bought  her 
from  a  woman  of  the  lowest  class,  and  palmed  the  infant  off 
on  her  husband  IMetro,  and  on  the  world,  as  her  own.  On 
the  ground  that  Pompilia  is  not  their  daughter,  the  aged 
couple  institute  a  suit  to  recover  their  property  from  Guido. 
Meanwhile  the  guiltless  and  utterly  inexperienced  Pom- 
pilia is  suffering  the  most  outrageous  treatment  from  her 
husband,  who,  wishing  to  get  rid  of  her  w  ihout  forfeiting 
the  dowry,  on  the  one  hand  practises  all  m.mner  of  cruelty, 
and,  on  the  other,  lays  snares  in  ordei  lo  le  id  her  f  a  vol- 
untary desertion  of  him.  His  eloits  arc  crjvvned  with 
; ::■  *  al  success.  All  other  resources  ha^in,];  failed,  Pom- 
pilia flies  towards  Rome  through  the  -^ssiFtunce  of  a  young, 
handsome,  and  noble-hearted  priest  Capons  \c'chi.  On  the 
road  they  are  overtaken  by  the  husband,  who,  ho vv  ever, 
does  nothing  more  than  institute  proceedings  for  divorce 
at  Rome.  Divorce  is  refused,  but  by  decree  of  the  court 
the  wife  is  placed  in  a  species  of  mild  imprisonment  in  a 
convent.  From  this  place  the  court  soon  allows  her  to 
retire  to  her  so-called  parents'  house,  just  outside  the 
walls,  and  here  she  gives  birth  to  a  son.  The  birth  of  this 
child  brings  matters  to  a  crisis;  for  Guido  sees  that  by 
getting  possession  of  this  child,  and  making  away  with  his 
wife  and  her  parents,  he  may  at  once  gratify  his  hatred  and 
retain  the  property.  With  some  followers,  he  goes  by  night 
to  the  lonely  house,  and  brutally  murders  Pompilia  and  her 
reputed  parents.  He  is  foiled,  however,  in  his  hope  of  find- 
ing the  infant  there,  and,  further,  does  not  succeed  in 
gaining  his  home  before  arrest.  He  had  anticipated  hav- 
ing no  difficulty  at  Arezzo,  through  personal  and  family 
influence,  in  escaping  the  consequences  of  his  crime.     He 


192 


DEVELOPMENT  :    SECOND    PERIOD. 


■■■    )  ^ 


is  seized,  however,  on  Roman  territory ;  Pompilia,  too, 
almost  miraculously,  had  escaped  instant  death,  and  sur- 
vived several  days  to  give  evidence  against  her  husband. 
Guido  and  his  companions  are  condemned  to  death  ;  appeal 
is  made  to  the  Pope,  who  affirms  the  sentence,  and  they 
suffer  accordingly.  Such  is  the  story  outlined  in  Book  I. 
It  also  furnishes  a  sort  of  prologue  to  each  of  the  ten 
following  books,  explaining  the  circumstances  in  which  the 
several  monologues  are  spoken. 

Books  II.-IV.  present  the  judgment  of  the  world  of 
onlookers  upon  the  case.  In  Book  II.,  a  gossiping  Roman 
narrates  the  story  to  a  friend.  He  gives  a  version  which 
represents  the  point  of  view  of  those  who  incline  to  take 
part  with  the  husband,  and  the  book  is  entitled  Half-Rome. 
In  Book  III.,  another  nameless  speaker  gives  an  account 
which  is  favorable  to  the  wife,  and  represents  The  Other 
Half-Rome.  Both  these  speakers  are  average  men  of  the 
middle  class.  But  in  Book  IV.,  entitled  Tertium  Quid,  we 
have  the  story  as  told  in  a  corner  of  a  drawing-room,  where 
is  gathered  the  highest  and  most  cultivated  society  of 
Rome.  The  narrator  is  a  gentleman  who  plumes  himself 
on  his  critical  acumen  and  superior  penetration,  and, 
accordingly,  he  takes  a  more  subtle,  balanced,  not  to  say 
cynical,  view  of  the  case,  than  the  two  former.  Each  of 
these  narrators  has  an  individuality  of  his  own,  clearly 
conceived  by  the  poet,  and  exhibited  in  the  indirect  way 
characteristic  of  him.  And  though  the  narrators  have  no 
immediate  interest  in  the  case,  and  each  believes  himself 
impartial, — though  each  narrative  is,  taken  by  itself,  a 
satisfactory  and  plausible  version,  —  yet,  when  acquainted 
with  all,  we  see  that  in  each  the  truth  is  colored  and 
warped  by  the  speaker's  character  and  circumstances. 

In  the  following  three  books,  additional  light  is  thrown 


DEVELOPMENT;    SECOND    PERIOD. 


m 


on  the  case  by  the  statements  of  the  three  persons  most 
immediately  concerned.  First,  in  Book  V.,  Guido  makes 
his  defence  before  the  judges,  wherein  he  does  not  deny 
the  act,  but  manages  to  put  facts  in  such  a  light  as  to 
afford  a  plausible  excuse  for  it.  Opposed  to  this,  we  have, 
m  Book  IV.,  the  passionate  speech  of  Caponsacchi,  the 
priest  by  whose  assistance  Pompilia  had  escaped  from 
Arezzo,— an  eloquent  vindication  of  the  lofty  motives  which 
actuated  Pompilia  and  himself.  Then,  in  Book  VII.,  with 
great  pathos  and  power,  Pompilia  on  her  death-bed  tells 
the  story  of  her  life. 

Books  VIII.  and  IX.  contain  the  pleadings  of  the  lawyers 
who  uphold  the  causes  of  Guido  and  Pompilia  respectively 
They  are  less  interesting  than  the  preceding,  because,  among 
other  reasons,   neither  speaker  even   professes  to  throw 
any  light  on  the  real  facts  of  the  case.     Lawyer-like,  they 
have  no  concern  whatever  with  truth,  but  are  merely  desir- 
ous  of  gaining  their  point  and  showing  their  subtlety.     In 
Book  X.  the  good  old  Pope  Innocent  reviews  the  case 
and  gives  judgment.    In  doing  so.  he  finds  occasion  to  con' 
sider  the  existing  condition  of  society,  and  the  grounds  of 
the  principles  on  which  he  himself  acts ;  so  that  Browning 
has  here  an  opportunity  for  treating  those  fundamental 
questions  of  which  he  is  so  enamoured.     In  Book  XI 
Guido,  now  desperate  and  on  the  eve  of  execution,  again 
speaks,  no  longer  artfully  presenting  himself  and  his  facts 
in  the  guise  which  may  best  excuse  his  crime,  but  reveal- 
ing his  inmost  nature  with  powerful  and  terrible  frankness 
Finally,  in  the  concluding  book,  the  poet  again  comes  for- 
ward, gives  some  additional  details,  and  the  moral  of  the 
whole. 

We  have  thus  (for  the  Pope  but  briefly  refers  to  the  facts 
of  the  case)  the  story  retold  ten  times  from  as  many  dif- 


194 


DEVELOPMENT  :    SECOND   PERIOD. 


"HI 

...  U,.lji 


JK 


ferent  points  of  view.  At  first  sight,  at  least,  no  plan  could 
seem  more  awkward  and  inartistic ;  probably  in  the  whole 
range  of  literature  no  poem  with  any  claims  to  greatness 
could  be  found  written  on  no  astounding  a  plan.  Andjret, 
inartistic  as  it  is,  the  plan  is  remarkably  suited  to  JBrown- 
ing's  special  aims  and  aptitudes.  It  has  already  been 
noted  that  it  is  Browning's  favorite  method  to  reveal 
character  by  exhibiting  the  mental  attitude  of  an  individual 
to  some  one  fact  or  thought.  In  T/ie  Ring  and  the  Book, 
he  has  enlarged  the  scope  of  his  method.  He  unfolds, 
through  a  series  of  typical  characters,  a  picture  of  the  com- 
munity at  large,  exhibited  in  its  attitude  towards  a  single 
event  —  this  crime  of  Guido.  His  plan  affords  him  abun- 
dant opportunity  for  revealing  character  in  monologues 
which  arise  naturally  from  the  circumstances ;  the  long  and 
unbroken  analysis  of  motive  is  in  keeping  with  the  situation. 
The  resulting  portraits  are  equal  to  anything  that  Brown- 
ing has  ever  produced.  Caponsacchi,  the  Pope,  Pompilia, 
Guido,  are  each  a  masterpiece  of  conception  and  execution. 
The  portraits  of  the  three  representatives  of  public  opinion 
are  not  less  true  and  detailed,  but  neither  in  themselves 
nor  in  the  situation  in  which  they  are  placed,  can  they  have 
the  power  of  interesting  the  feelings  which  Pompilia  and 
Caponsacchi  possess.  The  least  interesting  portions  of  the 
poem  are  the  two  books  devoted  to  the  lawyers ;  not  that 
these  characters  are  less  lifelike,  but  these  are  tedious  and 
uninteresting  persons,  whose  lucubrations  in  real  life  we 
would  fain  be  spared,  and  are  scarcely  desirous  of'  volun- 
tarily inflicting  them  upon  ourselves  in  fiction.  This  is  a 
defect  in  Browning's  method.  Tedious  or  disagreeable 
characters  may,  when  intermingled  with  those  of  a  differ- 
ent kind,  be  a  source  of  pleasure  in  works  of  the  imagi- 
tiation.    Thersites,  Polonius,  Dogberry,  are  all  sources  of 


development:  second  period. 


195 


lagi- 
of 


pleasure.  But  Browning's  method  compels  him  to  admin- 
ister these  disagreeable  personages  in  large  and  undiluted 
doses  ;  so  that  we  become  disgusted  with  Mr.  Sludge,  and 
yawn  over  Hyacinthus  de  Archangelis,  as  we  would  in  the 
case  of  their  prototypes  in  real  life. 

Besides  what  it  owes  to  these  characters  in  the  fore- 
ground, The  Ring  and  the  Book  is  impressive  in  virtue  of 
the  power  and  verisimilitude  with  which  the  background 
to  the  central  events  and  persons  is  indicated.  A  succes- 
sion of  minute  and,  as  it  were,  cursory  touches,  reveals  the 
condition  of  society  and  of  the  Church  at  the  time.  The 
vividness,  also,  of  the  glimpses  which  the  poem  gives  into 
the  more  trivial  manners  and  customs  of  everyday  life, 
impresses  the  reader  with  the  thoroughness  of  the  poet's 
acquaintance  with  the  period,  and  his  complete  command 
of  his  materials. 

So  far  in  this  work  we  have  noted  manifestations  of 
those  qualities  which  had  already  been  so  successfully  ex- 
hibited in  Dramatic  Romances^  Men  and  Women,  and 
Dramatis  Persona.  It  was  premised,  however,  that  The 
Ring  and  the  Book  is  a  transition  work,  and  we  now  pro- 
ceed to  this  second  side,  —  to  the  tendencies  which  are  to 
become  predominant  in  works  written  subsequently  to 
1868.  Already  in  Chapter  I.  attention  was  drawn  to  the 
keenness  and  subtlety  of  Browning's  intellect.  He  has,  in 
an  extraordinary  degree  among  the  men  of  this  generation, 
a  power  in  which  this  generation  probably  surpasses  all.  its 
predecessors,  —  ^hat  of  seeing  the  various  sides  of  a  ques- 
tion, of  understanding  views  and  positions  wholly  different 
from  one's  own.  His  dramatic  power  is,  in  no  small  de- 
gree, ^pendent  on  this  quality.  Jc^  is  through  intellectual 
insight,  rather  than  through  emotional  sympathy,  that  he 
is  able  to  enter  into  various  characters.     It  has  been  said 


196 


DEVELOrMLNT  :    SIXOND    PERIOD. 


H' 


Jrj 


that  had  Browning  chosen  the  law  as  his  profession,  he 
would  have  been  the  greatest  special  pleader  the  English 
Bar  has  ever  seen.  For  the  exercise  of  this  power,  the 
plan  of  T/w  Rifiif  and  the  Book  gives  the  amplest  scope. 
Of  his  power  of  plausibly  presenting  a  case  at  variance 
with  his  own  way  of  thinking,  he  had  previously  given 
proof  especially  in  Mr.  Sludge,  the  Medium,  and  Bishop 
Blougrams  Apology.  But  henceforward  his  works,  to  a 
much  greater  degree,  exhibit  this  predilection  for  pre- 
senting characters  and  pleas  which  are  furthest  removed 
from  his  own  sympathies. 

Closely  connected  with  this  mental  trait  is  his  view  of 
truth  already  explained.  Truth  in  this  world  is  relative. 
Only  by  struggling  with  the  various  forms  of  the  false  and 
erroneous  does  the  great  poet  gain  some  faint  glimpse  of 
heavenly  and  absolute  truth.  This  deep  sense  of  the  rela- 
tivity and  many-sidedness  of  truth,  of  the  multitudinous 
modifications  and  links  through  which  each  truth  is  de- 
pendent on  all  others,  and  of  the  inadequacy  of  language 
to  express  it,  is  continually  reappearing  in  Browning's 
works.  One  recalls  the  figure  under  which  is  imaged  in 
Sordello  the  difficulty  of  stating  any  idea  in  its  truth  and 
entirety. 

Observe  a  pompion  twine  afloat ; 

Pluck  me  one  cup  from  off  the  castle  moat ! 

Along  with  cup  you  raise  leaf,  stalk,  and  root, 

The  entire  surface  of  the  pool  to  boot. 

So  could  I  pluck  a  cup,  put  in  one  song 

A  single  sight,  did  not  my  hand,  too  strong, 

'J'witch  in  the  least  the  root-strings  of  the  whole. 

How  should  externals  satisfy  my  soul  ?  (p.  121.) 

With  these  peculiarities  of  Browning's  genius  and  phil- 
osophy is  connected  a  peculiarity  in  his  method.    \Vc  have 


ni:  vi:r.oiMi:N  r  :  sixond  plkiol). 


«97 


seen  that  he  has  certain  truths  to  utter,  and  that  he  utters 
them  dramatically,  inolifying  them  to  suit  the  character  to 
whom  they  are  ascribed.  For  this  he  has  an  excellent 
artistic  reason,  —  he  thus  gives  body  and  color  to  the  ab- 
stract, makes  the  intangible  picturesque,  liut  he  has 
another  reason  which  he  reveals  at  the  close  of  the  poem 
which  we  are  considering :  — 


It  is  the  glory  and  good  of  Art, 
That  Art  remains  the  one  way  possible 
Of  speaking  truth,  to  mouths  like  mine,  at  least. 
How  look  a  brother  in  the  face  and  say 
"  Thy  right  is  wrong,  eyes  hast  thou  yet  are  blind, 
Thine  ears  are  stuffed  and  stopped,  despite  their  length, 
And,  oh,  the  foolishness  thou  countest  faith  !  " 
Say  this  as  silverly  as  tongue  can  troll  — 
The  anger  of  the  man  may  be  endured. 
The  shrug,  the  disappointed  eyes  of  him 
Are  not  so  bad  to  bear  — but  here's  the  plague, 
That  all  this  trouble  comes  of  telling  tnith. 
Which  truth,  by  when  it  reaches  him,  looks  false, 
Seems  to  be  just  the  thing  it  would  supplant. 
Nor  recognizable  by  whom  it  left  — 
While  falsehood  would  have  done  the  work  of  truth 
But  Art,  —wherein  man  nowise  speaks  to  men. 
Only  to  mankind,  —  Art  may  tell  a  truth 
Obliquely,  do  the  thing  shall  breed  the  thought, 
Nor  wrong  the  thought  missing  the  mediate  word. 
So  may  you  paint  your  picture,  twice  show  truth 
Beyond  mere  imagery  on  the  wall,  — 
So  note  by  note  bring  music  from  your  mind 
Deeper  than  ever  the  Andante  divt-d,  — 
So  write  a  book  shall  mean  bc-yund  the  t.icts 
Suffice  the  eye  and  save  the  suul  beside. 

—  (lik   XII,  li.  s.S-.-.j.; 


198 


DEVELOPMENT  :    SECOND   PERIOD. 


Browning  further  believes  that  truths  rendered  from  dif- 
ferent points  of  view  will  be  more  adequately  grasped  than 
they  would  be  from  any  attempt  (to  Browning  both  pain- 
ful and  unsatisfactory)  to  reproduce  them  exactly  aisjhey 
are  in  his  own  mind.  This  sense  of  the  complexity  and 
many-sidedness  of  truth  seems,  with  increased  experience, 
to  have  forced  itself  more  and  more  on  the  Poet,  and  has 
had  a  marked  influence  on  his  later  works.  In  this  respect, 
again,  the  plan  of  T/ie  Ring  and  the  Book  meets  his  need, 
and  is  an  exemplification  of  the  truth  on  which  the  need  is 
founded.  In  Book  I.  he  defends  the  many-sidedness  of  his 
presentation  of  this  story,  comparing  his  poem  to  a  land- 
scape painted  not  as  it  appears  merely  at  some  particular 
season,  but  in  all  the  phases  which  it  assumes  through  the 
changeful  year. 


A  novel  country :  I  might  make  it  mine 

By  choosing  which  one  aspect  of  the  year 

Suited  mood  best,  and  putting  solely  that 

On  panel  somewhere  in  the  House  of  Fame, 

Landscaping  what  I  baved,  not  what  I  saw : 

—  Might  fix  you,  whether  frost  in  goblin-time 

Startled  the  moon  with  his  abrupt  bright  laugh, 

Or,  August's  air  afloat  in  filmy  fire. 

She  fell,  arms  wide,  face  foremost  on  the  world, 

Swooned  there  and  so  singed  out  the  strength  of  things. 

Thus  were  abolished  Spring  and  Autumn  both. 

The  land  dwarfed  to  one  likeness  of  the  land, 

Life  cramped  corpse -fashion.     Rather  learn  and  love 

F.ac  h  facet- flash  of  the  revolving  year  !  — 

Red,  green,  and  blue  that  whirl  into  a  white. 

The  variance  now,  the  eventual  unity. 

Which  make  the  miracle,     bee  it  for  yourselves. 


development:  seconu  period. 

This  man's  act,'  changeable  because  alive  f 

Action  now  shrouds,  now  shows  the  informing  thought ; 

Out  of  the  magic  fire  that  lurks  inside. 

Shows  one  tint  at  a  time  to  take  the  eye : 

Which,  let  a  finger  touch  the  silent  sleep, 

Shifted  a  hair's  breadth  shoots  yon  dark  for  bright, 

Suffuses  bright  with  dark,  and  baffles  so 

Your  sentence  absolute  for  shine  or  shade. 

Once  set  such  orbs,  —  white  styled,  black  stigmatized,  — 

A  rolling,  see  them  once  on  the  other  side 

Your  good  men,  and  your  bad  men  every  one, 

From  Guido  Franceschini  to  Guy  Faux, 

Oft  would  you  rub  your  eyes  and  change  your  names. 


199 


*  Vix.  Guido's  crime. 


—  (Bk.  I,  U.  1348-78.) 


200 


DEVELOl'MENT  :    THIRD   PERIOD. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


DEVELOPMENT:   THIRD   PERIOD. 


«■■     - 


<'■**•' 


lit 


.-^ 


The  year  1868,  in  which  T/ie  Ring  and  the  Book  was 
published,  is  a  dividing  line  in  Browning's  poetic  career. 
During  the  next  two  years  no  work  by  him  appeared  ; 
but  in  the  decade  beginning  with  1871,  nearly  every  year 
produced  one  book,  and  some  years  more  than  one.  The 
volume  of  his  work  since  1870  is  greater  than  that  of 
the  thirty-five  years  of  literary  activity  which  preceded  the 
publication  of  The  Ring  and  the  Book  ;  yet  in  1870  Brown- 
ing was  nearly  sixty  years  of  age.  Now,  it  has  often  been 
observed  that  age,  no  matter  how  vigorous,  is  unfavorable 
to  the  production  of  imaginative  work.  Judgment  may  be 
surer,  intellectual  keenness  undiminished,  knowledge  and 
experience  increased ;  but  the  power  of  creative  imagina- 
tion, the  power  of  imparting  life  and  beauty,  of  touching 
the  emotions  through  works  of  art,  is  decadent.  This  is 
illustrated  in  the  works  of  nearly  all  our  great  novel- 
writers  ;  it  is  manifest  in  Milton  and  in  Wordsworth ;  it 
is  most  strikingly  apparent  in  Goethe ;  it  is  perhaps  visible 
even  in  Shakespeare,  though  he  died  when  little  more  than 
fifty. 

Browning  is  a  man  in  whom  the  purely  poetic  endow- 
ment has  always  been  proportionately  weak.  In  other 
words,  a  great  part  of  the  worth  of  his  work  has  always 
been  due  to  qualities  not  necessarily  or  purely  poetic, — 
tp  intellectual  force  and  acuteness,  to  scientific  insight  and 
power  of  analysis.  It_appeals  to  intellect  rather  than  to 
feeling.     When  even  the  works  of  his  prime  are  apt  to  fail 


HEVELOI'MENT  :    THIRD   PERIOD. 


20I 


somewhat  on  the  purely  poetic  side,  it  is  not  astonishing 
that  the  productions  of   his  old  age  are  in  this  respect 
seriously  defective.     Every  one  of  the  numerous  works  pub- 
lished since  1868,  seems  to  lack  that  essential  something 
which  constitutes  a  great  poem.     He  has  written  nothing 
to  equal  the  best  of  his  earlier  works,  —  nothing  to  raise 
him  in  our  estimation  as  a  poet.     There  is,  on  the  other 
hand,  no  indication  of  decay  in  the  man :  our  impression 
of  his  intellectual  power,  of  his  exhaustless  energy,  of  his 
many-sided  interests,  of  his  learning,  is  deepened ;  but  not 
our  impression  of  his  artistic  power,  of  his  sense  of  beauty 
and  form.     These  volumes  are  marked  by  diffuseness,  — 
by  a  tendency  to  express  his  thoughts  fully,  whether  or 
not  they  have  any  close  bearing  on  the  theme  in  hand. 
To  the  story  which  forms  the  subject  of  Red  Cotton  Nig/it- 
cap  Country,  he  prefixes  a  rambling  talk  of  twenty-five 
pages,  which  has  little  connection  with  the  theme,  and 
little  value  in  itself.     He  manifests  petulance,  and  a  con- 
tempt of  criticism,  excusable  perhaps,  and  common  enough 
among  great  men  whose  work  has  been  ill-appreciated. 
He  finds  pleasure  in  giving  the  reins  to  caprice  in  subject, 
manner,  and  metre,  —  witness  Pacchiarotto.     Like  Words- 
worth in  his  old  age,  he  seems  to  hold  that  whatever 
interests  him,  and  he  chooses  to  give  to  the  public,  is 
of  value,  and  will  repay  the  struggle  through  any  obsta- 
cles which  his  manner  may  impose  upon  the  reader.     A 
sensational  story  meets  his  eye.     It  interests  him;   his 
imagination  evolves  the  characters  and  motives,  and  he 
embodies  the  repulsive  tale  in  a  poem,   The  Inn  Album. 
Another  pathological  study  attracts  his  scientific  instinct, 
— a  man  half-crazed  between  religion  and  passion.     He 
analyzes  the  mental  condition  of  this  character,  and  the 
Red  Cotton  Night-cap  Country,  a  volume  of  220  pages,  —  is 


Z02 


nrVFI.Ol'MI'.NT  ;    TIIIKD    l-EKKtl). 


(i 

lit.* 


'-"mi 


^, 


ihc  result.  These  arc  powerful  works,  —  j^reat  in  their 
way;  but  had  lirownin^  writteu  nothin^f  better,  it  seems 
doubtful  whether  in  fifty  years  his  poems  would  be  regarded 
otherwise  than  as  literary  curiosities.  The  same  tendency 
to  sensational  themes  and  treatment  is  apparent,  also,  in 
his  shorter  poems,  of  which  he  has  published  many  in  re- 
cent years,  —  in  Halbcrt  and  Ifoh,  A'cd  Bratts,  Ivan  Ivano- 
vitch,  and  Donald.  These  short  pieces  resemble  in  general 
form  and  subject  Men  and  Women,  and  Dramatis  Per- 
sonce ;  but  there  is  between  the  productions  of  the  two 
periods  a  contrast  not  less  marked  than  that  between 
Wordsworth's  early  and  late  work. 

Three  of  the  longer  poems  of  these  later  years,  viz. 
Pritice  Hohcnstiel-Sclnvangau  (1871),  Fifine  at  the  Fair 
(1872),  and  Aristophanes  Apology  (1875),  ^""^  examples  of 
those  ingenious  special  pleadings  which  Browning  is  fond 
of  putting  into  the  mouths  of  his  personages.  In  each  of 
these  poems  we  have  a  speaker  maintaining  a  thesis  which 
Browning  certainly  holds  to  be  erroneous,  and  yet  main- 
taining it  by  arguments  which  contain  what  he  holds  to  be 
the  deepest  truths.  In  this  curious  way  he  manages  to 
instil  that  truth  which  it  is  his  function  as  a  subjective 
poet  to  reveal.  Prince  Hohenstiel,  who  is  clearly  intended 
for  the  last  emperor  of  the  French,  defends,  in  the  poem 
named  after  him,  his  own  life  and  principles  ;  in  other 
words,  the  policy  of  expediency.  Than  this  policy  nothing 
could  be  less  in  sympathy  with  the  Poet's  temperament 
and  principles  ;  yet,  not  only  is  the  apology  a  most  plausi- 
ble one,  but  also  the  Poet  manages  to  flash  upon  his  reader 
through  this  distorting  medium  the  light  of  his  own  abstract 
truth.  In  Fifine,  we  have  a  Don  Juan,  who  sets  out  with  a 
sophistic  defence  of  his  amours  and  infidelities,  but  man- 
ages to  give,  before  he  closes,  the  fullest  exposition  we 


DEVELOl'MENT:    THIRD    PERIOD. 


203 


have  of  Browning's  philosophy  in  regard  to  the  relation  of 
finite  to  absolute,  —of  the  passing  shows  of  this  world  to 
the  everlasting  verities  of  the  divine  idea, — of  error  and 
falsehood  to  right  and  truth.  The  gist  of  the  poem  is 
expressed  in  the  familiar  lines  of  Shelley  : 

The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pasu ; 
Heaven's  light  forever  shines,  Earth's  shadows  fly ; 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-colored  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  eternity  — 

Fifine  is  deserving  of  close  study  by  any  one  who  desires 
a  clear  view  of  Browning's  philosophy.  Towards  the  close 
of  it,  the  world  is  presented  under  the  figure  of  a  city, 
whose  buildings,  apparently  solid,  are  actually  in  a  contin- 
ual state  of  flu  '..  There  stands  a  temple,  Religion,  namely, 
massive  and  firm  to  the  eye  of  the  ordinary  spectator. 
More  penetrating  vision,  however,  observes  that  it  is  suffer- 
ing continual  change,  like  the  towers  and  battlements  which 
the  fanciful  eye  sees  in  the  clouds  that  surround  the  set- 
ting sun.  Gradually  the  old  edifice  vanishes,  and  a  new 
takes  its  place.  But  the  temple  is  ever  there.  That  is  to 
say,  the  forms  of  religion  are  not  absolute  verities,  but 
must  change  to  suit  changing  and  progressive  man.  Yet 
religion  is  not  on  that  account  the  less  permanent  and  real. 
As  another  poet  says  :  — 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day ; 

They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be : 
They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee, 

And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

And  if  even  in  the  temple  there  is  change,  how  much 
more  m  the  neighboring  Academy,  which  prefigures  philos- 
ophy !      In  threescore  years,  what  seemed  the  solidest  of 


J04 


DLVi:L(»i'.\ii:Ni  :   imikd  ri;i<i(>i). 


hi 


'J 


■StJ 


•''1 

,1 


structures  has  entirely  vanished.  So  with  the  buildings 
which  represent  Learning,  Art,  and  the  rest.  Yet  in  each 
case,  though  the  form  changes,  Philosophy  and  Art  are 
real.  Again,  if  the  clear-sighted  observer  turns  his  at- 
tention to  the  inhabitants  of  this  city,  he  finds  in  their 
infinite  variety  representatives  of  an  infinite  variety  of 
perfect  types,  to  which,  though  for  the  present  distorted 
by  passing  conditions,  they  more  and  more  approximate. 
The  moral  of  the  vision  is,  "  All  is  change,  and  yet  all  is 
permanence."  The  soul  is  true  and  permanent ;  God  is 
true  and  permanent ;  but  the  former  in  working  up  towards 
the  latter  passes  through  a  changing  series  of  shadows,  — 
unreal  yet  needful  phases  in  progress  towards  §bsolute  truth. 

—  For  as  some  imperial  chord  subsists, 
Steadily  underlies  the  accidental  mists 
Of  music  springing  thence,  that  run  their  mazy  race 
Around,  and  sink,  absorbed,  back  to  the  triad  base ; 
So,  out  of  that  one  word,  each  variant  rose  and  fell, 
And  left  the  same  "  All's  change,  but  permanence  as  well." 
Grave  note,  whence  —  list  aloft !  —  harmonics  sound,  that  mean,  — 
"  Truth  inside ;  and,  outside,  truth  also ;  and,  between 
Each,  falsehood  that  is  change,  as  truth  is  permanence. 
The  individual  soul  works  through  the  shows  of  sense 
(Which,  ever  proving  false,  still  promise  to  be  true) 
Up  to  an  outer  soul  as  individual  too ; 
And,  through  the  fleeting,  lives  to  die  into  the  fixed, 
And  reach  at  length,  *  God,  man,  or  both  together  mixed,'  * 
Transparent  through  the  flesh,  by  parts  which  prove  a  whole, 
By  hints  which  make  the  soul  discernible  by  soul,  — 
Yet  only  soul  look  up,  not  down,  not  hate,  but  love, 
As  truth  successively  takes  shape,  one  grade  above 
Its  last  presentment,  tempts  as  it  were  truth  indeed 


*  From  ^chylus,  Prometheus,  I.  ii6. 


DEVKI.OI'MICNr:     rillKO    PERIOD. 


205 


Revealed  this  time  ;  s<>  tempts,  till  we  attain  to  read 

The  signs  aright,  and  learn,  by  failure,  truth  is  forced 

To  manifest  itself  through  falsehood  ;  whence  divorced 

Hy  the  excepted  eye,  at  the  rare  season,  for 

The  happy  moment,  truth  instructs  us  to  abhor 

The  false,  and  prize  the  true,  obtainable  thereby. 

Then  do  we  understand  the  value  of  a  lie : 

Its  purpose  served,  its  truth  once  safe  deposited, 

Kach  lie,  superfluous  now,  leaves,  in  the  singer's  stead, 

The  indubitable  song ;  the  historic  personage 

Put  by,  leaves  prominent  the  impulse  of  his  age  ; 

Truth  sets  nside  sjHiech,  act,  time,  place,  indeed,  but  brings 

Nakedly  fo     ard  now  the  principle  of  things 

Highest  and  least." 

Wherewith  change  ends.     What  other  change  to  dread, 
When,  disengaged  at  last  from  every  veil,  instead 
Of  type  remains  the  truth  ?    Once  falsehood ;  but  anon 
Theosuton  e  broteion  eper  kekeramenon^  — 
Something  as  true  as  soul  is  true,  though  veils  between 
Are  false  and  fleet  away.  _  (/r^„^,  §§  cxxiv.-v.) 

Both  of  these  poems  — />n«a'  Hohenstiel  and  Fifing  — 
are  worthy  of  study  for  their  substance ;  but  in  both  the 
artistic  element  is  defective.  The  picturesque  side,  the 
character  painting,  is  but  lightly  touched.  The  dramatic 
circumstances  of  the  defence  of  the  Prince  are  inadequate 
and  unnatural,— and  this  accounts,  perhaps,  for  the  Poet's 
representing,  at  the  close,  the  defence  as  a  mere  dream  or 
reverie.  So,  at  the  close  of  Ftfine,  he  half  indicates  that  Don 
Juan's  auditor  was  a  ghostly  one,  conjured  up  by  the  fancy 

The  third  poem  mentioned  a.ho\-Q~  Aristophanes'  Apology 
—  IS  the  most  noteworthy  of  the  works  which  have  fol- 
lowed The  Ring  and  the  Book,  and  is.  indeed,  a  striking 

»  The  Greek  line  quoted  above  in  English  form. 


206 


DEVELOPMENT  :    TIIIRI)    PERIOD. 


St4 


■J 

1 


exhibition  of  Browning's  power.  Browning  had,  in  his 
earlier  works,  more  than  once  given  indications  of  a  special 
interest  in  Euripides.  The  Pope  in  7/ie  Ring  and  the  Book 
refers  to  him  in  a  lengthy  passage;  and  in  1871,  Balaus- 
lions  Adventure,  including  a  Transcript  from  Euripides, 
had  given  a  version  of  the  Alcestis.  There  is,  in  fact, 
more  than  one  bond  of  sympathy  between  the  two  poets. 
Euripides,  too,  is  a  philosopher,  as  well  as  a  poet,  and 
Browning  finds  in  him  that  thirst  for  absolute  truth,  and 
that  contempt  for  authority  in  pursuit  of  it,  which  he 
himself  exemplifies  and  admires.  They  possess  in  com- 
mon a  certain  subtlety  of  intellect,  and  a  fondness  for 
special  pleading.  They  hold,  moreover,  analogous  positions 
in  the  development  of  poetry.  Both  are  innovators  ;  both 
consider  all  that  is  human,  fit  subject  for  art,  and,  in 
accordance  with  this  theory,  both  have  attempted  to  widen 
the  sphere  of  poetry,  and  have  thus  been  brought  into  a 
similar  conflict  with  convention.  It  was,  doubtless,  this 
similarity  in  position  that  set  Browning  writing  Aris- 
tophanes* Apology,  which  is  simply  a  version  of  the  well- 
known  contention  between  Euripides  and  Aristophanes.  It 
affords  another  example  of  Browning's  special  pleading. 
Aristophanes  in  person  defends  his  art,  and  his  method  of 
attacking  Euripides ;  while  he,  at  the  same  time,  criticises 
both  the  poetry  and  philosophy  of  his  adversary.  Eurip- 
ides' case  is  presented  by  Balaustion,  the  beautiful  young 
Rhodian  woman,  in  whose  mouth  Browning  had  already 
put  his  version  of  the  Alcestis.  Feeling  hei  inequality 
with  so  stout  a  champion  as  Aristophniies,  she  reads,  as 
Eurfpides'  best  defence,  a  sctiriple  of  his  work,  the  play 
named  Herakles,  —  or  rather,  of  course,  Browning's  trans- 
lation of  it.  The  author's  sympathy  is  evidently  with 
Euripides ;  yet  in  Aristophanes'  presentation  of  the  ques- 


DEVELOPMENT  :    THIRD    PERIOD. 


207 


m 


tion,  Browning  embodies  much  of  his  own  subjective  truth. 
Again,  this  poem  is  an  example  of  his  favorite  method  of 
presenting  truth  indirectly  and  dramatically.  It  is  a  work, 
as  was  said,  of  great  power ;  the  portrait  of  Aristophanes 
is  a  striking  one ;  the  poet  shows  his  mastery  over  a  great 
store  of  knowledge.  But  it  is  not  a  poem  that  can  ever 
be  popular ;  the  theme  is  too  narrow  in  its  interest,  and  is 
treated  with  too  much  historic  and  technical  detail. 

The  volume  published  in  1876,  Pacchiarotto,  and  Other 
Poems  is  marked  by  two  peculiarities,  —  by  the  number  of 
pieces  in  which  the  Poet  directly  or  covertly  defends  and 
explains  his  work,  and  by  his  increased  tendency  to  present 
opposing  aspects  of  truth  without,  as  it  were,  committing 
himself.  Pacchiarotto  presents  two  opposite  views  of  the 
proper  employment  of  life,— whether  man  ought  to  struggle 
against  surrounding  conditions,  or  submit  to  them.  Into 
each  side  of  the  argument  enters  a  certain  amount  of 
truth.  Pisgah  Sights  give  two  opposing  aspects  of  the 
same  problem ;  while  Bifurcation  argues  on  one  hand  for 
the  sacrifice  of  love  to  duty,  on  the  other  in  behalf  of  the 
sacrifice  of  duty  to  love.  Another  odd  non-committal  poem 
is  Tears  and  Scruples,  which  has  for  its  subject  the  diffi- 
culties of  religious  belief. 

In  1877  appeared  a  translation  of  the  Agamemnon  of 
^schylus ;  in  1878  The  Two  Poets  of  Croisic,  and  La  Sai- 
siaz.  The  latter,  occasioned  by  the  death  of  a  friend,  dis- 
cusses the  question  of  immortality.  The  Poet  finds  the 
ordinary  arguments  in  its  favor  all  faulty,  and  finally  rests 
his  belief  in  it  on  his  individual  conviction,  —  a  result  quite 
in  harmony  with  the  transcendental  character  of  his  philos- 
ophy. In  1879-8C  were  published  .. ;.  >  collections  of  short 
pieces  entitled  Dramatic  Idyls;  in  1883,  another  small  col- 
lection of  short  YQ^m^.Jocoseria;  in  1885,  appeared  Perish- 


208 


UEVEl.OI'MKNT  :    THIRD    PERIOD. 


^*1 


I  t^' 


taA's  Fancies;  in  1887,  Parlcyings  ivith  Certain  People  of 
Importance.  These  short  poems  have  been  briefly  charac- 
terized already,  and  need  not  further  detain  us.  It  remains 
to  say  something  of  the  man  Browning,  before  we  close. 

The  careful  study  of  his  works  confirms  the  claim 
Browning  puts  forth  in  Sordelht ;  in  his  case  the  man  is 
greater  than  the  poet.  English  literature,  in  the  nine- 
teenth century,  presents  an  unusual  array  of  great  poets, 
—  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Byron,  Shelley,  Keats,  Tenny- 
son, Browning.  The  rank  which  Browning  will  ultimately 
hold  among  these  as  a  poet,  it  would  be  premature  to 
attempt  to  fix ;  but  one  might,  perhaps,  venture  to  assert 
that  of  the  seven  named.  Browning  is  the  greatest  man. 
In  many-sidedness  of  intellectual  interests  and  powers, 
Coleridge  alone  resembles  him.  liut  Coleridge  lacked 
energy  of  will  to  guide  and  concentrate  his  intellectual 
efforts.  There  is  a  dreamy,  unfinished,  slovenly  element 
in  Coleridge's  character,  life,  and  work.  .  Therein  Brown- 
ing is  his  direct  antithesis.  Nothing  in  him  is  more 
impressive  than  a  certain  force  and  energy  of  character. 
lie  has  that  wholesome  activity  that  belongs  to  a  healthy 
and  strong  nature.  "  He  rejoiceth  as  a  strong  man  to  run 
a  race."  He  thirsts  to  enjoy  life  to  the  full,  to  tax  every 
energy,  to  submit  to  every  experience.  In  Saul  he  reflects 
his  own  sense  of  the  beauty,  bliss,  and  worth  of  life.  Lis- 
ten to  the  fulness  of  vigor  palpitating  in  the  lines,  which  he 
sympathetically  puts  into  the  mouth  of  the  young  shepherd 
David,  fresh  and  unworn  from  the  air  of  the  open  hills :  — 

"  Oh,  our  manhood's  prime  vigour  !    No  spirit  feels  waste, 
Not  a  muscle  is  stopped  in  its  playing  nor  sinew  unbraced. 
Oh,  the  wild  joys  of  living !  the  leaping  from  rock  up  to  rock. 
The  stix>ng  rending  of  boughs  from  the  fir-tree,  the  cool  silver  shock 
Of  the  plunge  in  a  pool's  living  water,  the  hunt  of  the  bear, 


DEVELOPMENT:    THIRD   PERIOD. 


209 


And  the  sultriness  showing  the  Hon  is  couched  in  his  lair. 

And  the  meal,  the  rich  dates  yellowed  over  with  gold  dust  divine, 

And  the  locust-flesh  steeped  in  the  pitcher,  the  full  draught  of  wine, 

And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river-channel  where  bulrushes  tell 

That  the  water  was  wont  to  go  warbling  so  softly  and  well. 

How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living  !  how  fit  to  employ 

All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  for  ever  in  joy  ! " 

-iSaui.iix.) 

The  unquenchable  desire,  depicted  in  Sordello,  to  exhaust 
all  that  life  has  to  offer.  Browning  himself  also  shares. 
He  combines  Paracelsus'  infinite  thirst  for  knowledge  with 
Aprile's  infinite  thirst  for  joy.  He  feels  the  yearning  that 
Goethe  felt  and  embodied  in  Faust.  Combined  with  this 
energy  and  fulness  of  desire  is  a  strong  and  active  imag- 
ination which  endows  the  creations  of  the  mind  with  the 
reality  of  material  things.  This  peculiarity  Browning  de- 
picts in  the  character  of  Sordello,  who  has  what  would 
seem  to  ordinary  men  the  strange  notion  of  finding  com- 
pensation for  the  narrowness  of  his  real,  in  the  complete- 
ness of  his  imaginative  experience.  To  quote  the  admi- 
rable characterization  of  M.  Milsand :  "  Throughout  the 
works  of  our  author  we  are  brought  into  contact  with 
natures  for  whom  the  conceptions  of  the  mind  have,  as  it 
were,  the  solidity  of  material  objects,  —  with  whom  senti- 
ments and  aspirations,  such  as  are  scarce  audible  in  ordi- 
nary natures,  speak  almost  with  the  clearness  of  physical 
needs,  —  with  whom  ideas  and  wishes  are  so  perfect  and 
rounded,  that  for  them  to  wish  is  to  be  able,  to  imagine  is 
to  see,  to  desire  is  to  possess."  One  may  draw  attention 
then  to  the  many  points  in  which  Browning's  philosophy 
harmonizes  with  such  a  nature,  —  the  reality  and  impor- 
tance of  the  inner  as  compared  with  the  outer  life,  the 
higher  significance  of  what  we  wi//,  as  compared  with  what 
we  lio,  of  effoit  as  compared  with  attainment. 


2IO 


DEVELOPMENT  :    THIRD    PERIOD. 


:  i 


From  the  energy  and  many-sidedness  of  Browning's 
characters  arises,  as  M.  Milsand  notices,  "  a  necessity  of 
widening  his  horizon,  of  quitting  his  own  person,  in  order 
to  interest  himself  in  all  that  exists."  And  from  the 
strength  of  his  imaginative  power  arises  the  means  to 
which  he  has  resort  in  order  to  realize  this  necessity.  He 
realizes  it  in  imaginative  experience,  —  in  poetry.  To 
quote  M.  Milsand  once  more  :  "  The  painter  and  the  poet 
seem  to  Browning  spirits  too  limited  and  confined,  who,  to 
escape  this  sense  of  impotence,  have  recourse  to  the  imag- 
ination. They  create  scenes,  epical  adventures,  chimerical 
splendor,  in  order  that  they  may  in  fancy  reign  over  the 
infinite,  —  that  they  may  possess  and  accomplish  in  idea 
that  which  human  conditions  do  not  permit  them  to  ac- 
complish and  possess  in  reality.  Yet  in  spite  of  himself, 
this  royalty  of  imagination  begets  a  species  of  chagrin ; 
it  is  but  an  incomplete  possession,  and  an  existence  im- 
perfectly realized." 

His  poetry,  theft,  is  for  Browning,  but  a  form  of  activity, 
a  means  of  realizing  his  own  individuality.  He  is  not  an 
Eglamour ;  his  poetry  is  not  the  end  of  his  existence ;  he 
does  not  submit  to  his  art,  nor  sacrifice  his  perfection  as  a 
man  to  the  perfection  of  his  work.  Like  Goethe,  he  writes 
not  so  much  to  produce  a  great  work, — to  please  others,  as 
to  afford  play  to  his  own  individuality.  Necessarily,  then, 
as  he  points  out  in  Sordello,  his  work  is  imperfect.  He 
has  himself  rather  than  his  reader  in  view.  He  is  seeking 
to  give  complete  and  accurate  expression  to  what  is  within 
him,  rather  than  to  give  beauty  and  artistic  completeness 
to  his  work.  Accordingly,  the  incongruous  and  non-essen- 
tial from  the  artistic  point  of  view,  he  does  not  prune 
away  ;  these  are  needful  for  the  true  and  complete  expres- 
sion of  his  own  mind. 


', 


L 


liNDEX   OF   POEMS.' 


Agamemnon  of  ^f^schytus  (1877),  ao/. 
Andrea  del  Suto  (1855,  Men  and  Viomtn), 

IS,  ti6^.   ji,  13a,  178.  183,  189. 
Aristoi,         s*  Apology  ( 1875) ,  15,  aoa,  ao6. 

Balaustion's  Adventure  (1871),  ao6. 
Balcony,  In  a  {vide  In  a  Balcony),  181. 
Bifurcation  (1876,  I'acchiarotto) ,  laj. 
Bishop  Bloogram's  Apology  (1855,  Men 

and  IVomtm),  15,  107,  13a,  178,  196. 
Bishop  Orders  his  Tomb,  The  (1845,  Mem 

and  Womtm,  1888),  183 f.,  1891 
Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,  A  (1843,  Belts  and 

PomejfraiuUs),  i8a 

Caliban  upon  Setebos  (1864,  Dramatis 

Persona),  tb. 
Cavalier  Tunes,  II.  (1843,  Bells  andPomt- 

granaUs,  Dramatic  Lyria,  1888),  33 ff., 

183. 
Christmas  Eve  (1850),  74, 105, 107,  188. 
Cleon  (1855,  hitn  and  Wowun),  jjff.,  6a, 

13a. 
'Columbe's    Birthday    (1844,    Bells    and 

PomtgranaUs),  55,  181. 
Confessions   (1864,   Dramatis  Persona), 

Cristina  (1843.  Bells  and  Pomt;granates, 
Dramatic  Lyrics,  1888),  56. 

Death  in  the  Deseit,  A  (1864,  Dramatis 
Persona),  49,  78 ff.,  13X 

Dts  Aliter  Visum  (1864,  Dramatis  Per- 
sona), 56,  13a. 

Donald  (1883,  Jocoseria),  aoa. 


Dramatic  Idyls  (First  Series,  X879;  Sec- 
ond Series,  1880),  ao/. 

Dramatic  Lyrics  {184a,  Bells  and  Pome- 
granates), 183. 

Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics  (1845, 
Bells  and  Pomegranates),  183. 

Dramatis  Personae  (1864),  188. 195,  aoa. 

Easter  Day  (1850),  107, 188. 

Epistle  of  Karshish,  An  (1855,  Men  and 

Women),  63 ff.,  131. 
Evelyn   Hope  (1855,  Men  and   Women, 

Dramatic  l.y,ics,  1888),  36. 

Fears  and  Scruples  (1876,  Pacckiarotto), 

ao7. 
Ferishtah's  Fancies  (1884),  aoS. 
Fifine  at  the  Fair  (1873),  3,  15,  54,  114, 

13a,  aoa,  ao3  ff. 
Fra  Lippo  Lippi  (1855,  A/m  and  Women), 

114,  13a,  183. 

Give  a  Rouse  (1842,  Bells  and  Pomegran- 
ates), 33 f. 

Grammarian's  Funeral,  A  (1855,  Mem 
and  Women,  Dramatic  Romances,  1888), 
13a. 

Guardian-Angel,  The  (185J.  Men  and 
Women,  Dramatic  Lyrics,  IJ85),  183. 

Halbeit  and  Hob  (1879,  DramoiH  Idyls), 
aoa. 

In  a  Balcony  (1855,  Men  and  Women),  181. 
Inn  Album,  "The  (1875),  aoi. 


'  The  original  date  of  |MUicat>on  is  appended,  and,  in  the  case  of  shorter  poems,  also  the 
general  title  under  which  they  appeared.  When  a  poem  appears  under  a  diflerent  general 
title  in  the  final  edition  now  being  published,  this  is  also  cited.  ?  umbers  in  italics  indicate 
that  the  poem  is  quoted  in  full,  or  analyied  on  the  corresponding  pages. 


212 


INDEX    OF    POEMS. 


h 


Ir,.' 

.1 


J' -J 

■'1 


Ivan  Ivanovitch  (1879,  Dramatic  Idyls), 

202. 

Jucoseria  (1883),  207. 

King  Victor  and  King  Charles  (1842, 
/jV/A  and  Pomegranates),  181. 

La  Saisiaz  (1878),  57,  207. 

Lippo  Lippi.  Fra  (vide  Fra  Lippo  Lippi). 

I.osi  Leader,  The  (1845,  ^'^^^  >^"d  Pome- 
granates, Dramatic  Lyrics,  1888),  183. 

I.urla  (1845.  Sells  and  Pomegranates) ,  32, 
178,  180,  181. 

Men  and  Women  (1855),  188,  195.  202. 
Mr.  Sludge,  "  The  Mediurrj  "  (1864,  Dra- 
matis Persona) ,  196. 
My  Last  Duchess  (1842,  Dells  and  Pome- 
"■    granates),  toff.,  183. 

Ned  Bratts  (1879,  Dramatic  Idyls),  ao2. 

Old  Pictures  in  Florence  (1855,  Men  and 
Women,  Dramatic  Lyrics,  1888),  iii  ff,, 
»33- 

Pacchiarolto  (1876),  51,  201. 

Pacchiarotto  and  Other  Poems  (1876), 
177.  207. 

Pauline  {1833),  56,  137. 

Paracelsus  (1835),  15,  31,  50,  57,  132  *«, 
137  ff.,  178. 

Parleyings  with  Certain  People  of  Impor- 
tance (1887),  208. 

Pied  Piper,  The  (1842,  Bells  and  Pome- 
granates), 183. 


I'ippa  Passes  (1841,  Bells  and  Pomegran- 
ates), 182  bis, 

Pisgah  Sights,  58.  207. 

Prince  Mohenstiel-Schwangau  (1871),  15, 
202,  205. 

Rablji  Ben  EzTt\(i8b4, Dramatis Persorttc), 

48,  13a,  189. 
Red  Cotton  Night  Cap  Country  (1873), 

201,  202. 
Return  of  the  Druses.  Ihe  (1843,  ^'//^ 

and  Pomegranates),  181. 
Ring  and  the  Book.  The  (1868),  15,  75, 

/Sgff.,  195,  196, 197,  200.  206. 

Saul  (Pt.  I.,  184s.  Bells  and  Pomegran- 
ates; Pis.  1.  an*  IL."  i8s'j,  Afen  and 
H'omen)  ,6a^  132, 183,  aoS. 

Sludge.  Mr,  (vide  Mr.  Sludge). 

Sordelio  (1840),  3,  30.  56,  103,  126,  129, 

132.  133.  134.  137.  140,  ////.,  180,  196, 
206, 208,  210. 

Soul's  Tragedy,  A  (1845,  ^'''-f  ""d  Pome- 
granates), 178.  182. 

Statue  and  the  Bust,  The  (1855,  Men  and 
U  'omen.  Dramatic  A'owa»«j,i  8R8) ,  52  ff. 

Strafford  (1837),  178,  179,  i8i. 

Two  Poofs  of  Croisic,  The  (1878),  207, 

Woman's  Last  Word,  A  (1855,  Men  and 
Women,  Dramatic  lyrics,  1888),  77/. 

Youth  and  Art  (1064,  Dramatis  Persona), 
56. 


dA 


'omegran- 


m  (1871).  IS, 

Uis  Per  some), 

untry  (1873), 

(1843,  Dtth 

868).  IS,  n> 
6. 

i  Pomegran- 
I'j,  Mtn  and 

:). 

)3,  126.  129. 

ff.,  180.  196, 

Is  and  Pome- 

55,  Men  and 
J,i8R8),52ff. 


378).  207. 

;5.  Men  and 
:838).  /;/. 

IS  PersoncB), 


